


Dreams Born in Solitude

by PVB



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angst with a Happy Ending, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 03:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 108,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PVB/pseuds/PVB
Summary: So nothing is okay, and everything’s okay. There’s one missing piece to the equation, and Keith’s gotten very good at ignoring it. He goes to work and goes to the doctor’s and goes to Pidge’s and the Holt’s and Shiro and Adam’s and keeps himself moving and busy. He’s got a lot on his plate; he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to raise a baby, he doesn’t have much time for anything else.But that’s only during the day. At night, things are quiet. He lays in his windowless room on his creaky bed, tossing and turning because he can’t fucking get comfortable, and he blinks gritty eyes at the dark room and justwants.He wants warm arms, and he wants someone to get him a glass of water, and he wants someone to tell him it’s gonna be okay, and someone to hold him up cause he’s getting exhausted doing it all himself. And he doesn’t want just anyone, he wantsLance.He misses Lance.Which is the silliest thing he’s ever heard. How can you miss something that was never yours?(Keith, a motorcycle mechanic, and Lance, a movie star, spend one night at a bar together. They get a lot more than they bargained for.)





	1. Part One

There’s something about riding a motorcycle at dawn; no cars on the road, sunrise painting the sky sorbet, nothing but sun and wind and the rumble of the engine.

Keith wishes he were dumb enough to take his helmet off; he wants nothing more than to feel the wind in his hair, to feel loose and untethered and at the mercy of the elements. He’s in a wild mood this morning, a buzzing in his bones that has him grinning wildly under his helmet, gripping the handlebars with shaking, white-knuckled fingers. It feels like one clap of thunder could blow him apart, and he’d let it.

He takes a turn, leaning his body into the curve, and his asshole twinges, the lingering ghosts of last night still aching in his thighs. He bites down on a triumphant grin.

He had sex with Lance McClain last night.

Actual, real-life, movie star Lance McClain. Teen heartthrob turned up-and-coming critical darling Lance McClain. To be honest it took Keith an embarrassingly long time to figure out who he was – because it’s not like genuine movie stars usually go to shitty bars in southeast LA – but once he did, he can’t stop inwardly freaking out about it. This guy, whose face Keith has seen on People magazines while picking up deodorant at CVS, actually wanted to have sex with Keith. Great sex. Awesome sex. Mind-blowing sex.

And he liked it so much, he asked for Keith’s number.

Keith feels like screaming all the way home.

 

* * *

 

 

It starts like this. That Friday night, Keith was in a rare social mood. His circle of friends is laughably small (Shiro – it’s literally just Shiro), and he usually spends his Friday nights watching TV or reading or playing video games or anything else antisocial loners do for fun. But the repair shop where he works as a motorcycle mechanic was really slow, and listening to his coworkers talk about their fun weekend plans with wives or kids or buddies made him feel lonely when it usually makes him feel grateful. So once the shop closes, he uses the locker room showers to freshen up, grabs a burger from Wendy’s and heads over to McFadden’s. It’s a gay bar but it doesn’t look it; really just comes off as a typical biker bar, jukeboxes and police badges and trashy signs that say ‘I only drink beer on days that end in Y.’ The only thing that would identify it for what it really is are the large bathrooms and sheer amount of police officers, truckers and mechanics who would use them for suspiciously long amounts of time. It’s much more Keith’s scene than the West Hollywood clubs that he’s been to. He’s gay, has been his whole life, but he’s still a motorcycle mechanic. He’s still crass and standoffish, and he’s not sure it’ll ever be his scene.

So he comes here. He sees a couple people he knows, a couple familiar faces in this dingy bar, but he just nods and takes a seat in the back corner of the bar. There’s a little upstairs dancing area that he’s been to a couple of times; for the most part he sits here, sips rum and cokes, stares moodily at the TV and occasionally makes small talk. He knows he’s not exactly making it easy for guys, but he can’t be anyone else. This is all he’s got.

He’s been there for an hour or so and gotten fairly invested in the professional bowling match on the screen when he senses more than sees the body came up beside him.

“Is that a rum and coke?”

Keith cuts his eyes over without turning his head. (Aloof is one of the only cards he’s got to play, so hell no, he’s not looking at this guy yet.) He gets a flash of tanned skin, floppy brown hair, small blue eyes, bright grin.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“Well, they also call them Cuba libres, which means ‘free Cuba.’ So why don’t you let _this_ Cuban,” he leans an elbow on the bar, “buy you the next one…for free?”

Keith holds out for a minute and then turns.

“That’s the worst pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

The guy grins, feline. He’s tall and thin; loose v-neck t-shirt and tight jeans, long fingers and clever eyes.

“Did it work?” The guy replies.

A tiny spark flares in Keith’s belly.

“Yeah.”

The guy grins, hoisting himself onto the seat next to the Keith and holding up two fingers at the bartender. Keith shifts in his seat, angling himself towards the guy and tamping down the rush of anxiety. (It’s been a while.)

“So what’s your name?” The guy asks, propping his chin up on his elbow.

“Keith.”

“I like it.”

Nothing follows.

“And yours?” Keith prompts.

For some reason this causes some slight hesitation.

“Lance,” he finally replies.

“Lance,” Keith repeats. “You don’t hear that one very often.”

“Plus I was born in Cuba, so my parents gave their brown kid the whitest name ever.”

“How long have you been in LA?”

“Since I was two. I grew up around here,” he says, gesturing broadly to indicate southeast LA.

“But you don’t live here now?”

“Nah,” Lance says, and shifts so quickly Keith doesn’t have a chance to follow up. “What about you? Are you local?”

“Yeah, born and raised,” Keith says. (He thinks. It’s been hard to track down. He’s got his birth certificate and not much else.)

The bartender brings over two rum and cokes, and Lance lifts his up, looking at Keith over the slope of his aquiline nose.

“Cuba libre,” he says, and the purr of his Spanish accent is way hotter than Keith could have anticipated. His thighs clench, involuntarily.

“Cuba libre,” he replies, and they clink. Keith drinks it all in one go and motions to the bartender for another.

Lance grins, pleased. “So what do you do, Keith?”

“I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”

Lance’s thin, shapely eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“What kind?”

Keith is surprised. “Japanese, mostly. Yamahas and Hondas and Kawasakis. I can do Americans and Ducatis but there were enough gearhead Harley fanatics in the shop I figured it’d be better to specialize.”

Lance nods eagerly throughout his whole spiel.

“Do you ride?” Holy shit, if he does –

Lance keeps grinning for another second and then gives up the ghost. “No,” he admits. “Fuck, I don’t know anything about motorcycles. I just thought knowing would make me seem sexy.”

Keith snorts, and Lance leans forward, a laugh pinking his cheeks. “That’s terrible,” Keith says. “You’re the worst.”

“Yep, you look thoroughly miserable in my presence.” Lance grins.

Conversation flows easily from there; way too easily, considering Shiro’s the only person Keith talks to like this. They cover everything from bananas versus plantains to the true monstrosity that is the 91 freeway to what, exactly, makes people think whiskey tastes good. Throughout it all, as the sun sinks further down and more empty rum and cokes pile up in front of them, Keith gets the feeling that Lance is somehow familiar. Not in any sort of soulmate I-know-you way; like he’s genuinely seen Lance somewhere, knows him, but can’t think of where or why.

Keith goes to the bathroom to empty his aching bladder and comes out to the sound of music from the upstairs dance floor. Lance is lounging in the barstool, one finger flicking lazily through what Keith recognizes as the latest iPhone. Keith gets curious.

He slides onto the barstool and Lance looks up at him with a smile. “Survive the perilous journey?”

“Very treacherous, but I lived,” Keith deadpans. “Hey, you never told me what you do.”

As expected, Lance gets shifty. “Oh, you know. LA bullshit.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m in the industry. Behind the scenes and stuff. Nothing fancy.”

His shoes are new. He’s got a Rolex watch on. He’s not making a big deal out of it, it’s very understated, but this guy has money. Lance fidgets under Keith’s gaze as he stares at him like a creeper.

Lance…

It clicks, finally.

“Jesus Christ,” Keith says, “are you _Lance McClain_?”

Lance blushes and cringes simultaneously, eyes darting around the bar like he’s making sure no one overheard, and that’s all the confirmation Keith needs.

Fuck, Lance McClain is _right here_. Now that Keith’s seen it he doesn’t know how he didn’t recognize him immediately. Every foster home and kid’s center played ‘Garrison Varsity’ ad nauseum for kids from elementary school all the way up to high school, figuring it was what ‘the kids wanted to watch.’ Keith was never that into it, but he remembers all the girls screaming when floppy-haired, baby-faced Lance would come on screen as Marco. And then he did movies as a teenager, stuff Keith never saw but always had glossy, color-saturated posters at the local theater. He always got profiles in the water-stained Tiger Beat magazines at the pediatrician’s office and Keith remembers him going to the Oscars and grinning on cameras and he’s here and at least kinda gay and he’s hitting on _Keith_?

“What the fuck,” Keith says, dumbly.

Lance grabs their drinks in one hand and Keith’s hand in his other and drags him back to one of the few booths against the wall. “Sorry,” he says, as they slide in, “kinda trying to keep a low profile.”

“Why are you here?”

“I was in the area.”

“Why?” Keith is no longer down for mystery.

Lance sighs, takes a sip of his drink. He’s much broader than Keith’s fuzzy teenage image of him; wide shoulders, clear skin, sharp jaw. He’s still got a feline quality to him, but it’s sharper, more cutting. He’s gorgeous.

“I am from here,” he finally says. “My parents came to southeast when we first moved here. And the hospital here, St. Cecilia’s, they were really good to my family. Helped my mom when she broke her hip, took good care of my sister when she had her baby. They really worked with us when we couldn’t pay our bills, made us feel like we really mattered. Now that things are…better, I like to go back and volunteer. Let them know that I appreciate it, what they did for my family.” He shrugs, his eyes trained on the dirty table top. “Least I could do, really.”

Keith might be a little drunk, but he thinks that’s the single greatest thing he’s ever heard any human say. He was so poor growing up that the thought of someone coming from his neighborhood and making it big was incomprehensible. Nobody made anything of themselves from the shit streets that Keith hung out on. You maybe graduated high school if you were dedicated; most people got shit jobs, had babies young, settled into the drudgery they’d been born in and stayed there for the next generation. Keith hates thinking about it for too long; it feels too much like a prophecy. He had no idea Lance McClain was from here; no idea that someone actually escaped, and more than that, actually wanted to come back to help, didn’t just leave this place in the rearview like Keith would’ve done.

“That’s…” Keith has trouble finding the words without sounding trite or effusive. Lance looks at him with some trepidation.

“Amazing,” Keith finishes, and Lance’s smile is beaming.

“It’s nothing,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And what are you doing in this bar?”

Because that’s the real question here.

_What are you doing hitting on me?_

“Well, ya know…” Lance pauses, face crumpling up slightly. “This place is pretty, uh…it’s not where you would expect to find, you know, someone like me. So I come here whenever I’m in this part of town to kinda…be anonymous. People here don’t usually know me.”

“Is that why…” Keith trails off.

“I talked to you?”

Keith flushes, forces a laugh.

“I mean, partly, yeah, you’re not exactly the target demographic of my work. But partly it’s cause you’re absolutely gorgeous.”

Keith’s stomach swoops. He ducks his head, takes an extreme interest in the drink in his hand. When he finally looks up, Lance is smirking at him.

It feels like the edge of a precipice, and Keith’s never been good at not jumping.

Lance gets them another round of drinks, and it puts Keith firmly over the edge into drunk. The sun’s fully set outside, dipping McFadden’s into a dark haze of neon signs and dim fluorescent bulbs. The music upstairs has gotten louder, thumping down through the floor to drip over their little booth. Keith, who has not danced in at least half a decade, finds himself nodding his head, bopping his shoulders, little wiggles of uncoordinated movement that feel so good.

“Wanna dance?” Lance finally asks.

Every other time in his life that Keith has been asked that, the answer has been a surly ‘no.’

“Yeah,” he says, and gets out of the booth, stumbling a little on the exit.

Lance leads them him upstairs to the tiny dance floor, really just a DJ booth and a postage stamp hardwood floor. “Be right back,” Lance whispers in his ear, and weaves through the writhing bodies to the DJ booth. Keith watches with hazy eyes as Lance leans in, slips the DJ something and whispers in his ear. By the time he makes his way back to Keith, the techno music has faded out, and in its place is a pulsing Latin song.

“Did you change the song?” He asks. He has to shout a little to be heard.

Lance nods, reaches out a hand, fits it to the dip of Keith’s waist. It’s hot, startles Keith a little. “Reggaeton is the best music for dancing,” he says, pulling Keith closer to him. The room smells like sweat and heat and Keith’s dizzy with it.

“Fucking movie stars,” he says, and Lance cracks up.

He starts to move, hips curving in little circles, hands moving Keith like the tides of the ocean – in and out, in and out. Keith slowly puts his hands on Lance’s shoulders.

“I should tell you I really don’t know how to dance.”

“That’s not what I’m seeing,” Lance replies.

Keith’s not sure how he got here. He’s not sure how he wound up with big, warm hands on his hips and his thighs and his ass. He’s not sure how this pulsing music has wrapped him up, enveloped him fully with this heartbeat-steady rush. He’s not sure how he’s dancing with a movie star and he’s not sure how the movie star’s mouth is so soft and slick and warm.

The music changes, and Keith interrupts the best makeout of his life with a groan.

“ _Jesus._ ”

“What,” Lance says with a laugh, familiar guitar intro playing over the speakers. “Don’t tell me you don’t like this song!”

“It’s fucking ‘Despacito!’”

“Nooo, this is the original version, no Justin on this one, it’s way better!”

Keith doesn’t mind it, actually, the way it’s better than the shit version he heard every fucking day on the radio. He starts dancing again, tucking his head against Lance’s sweat-damp t-shirt.

Then –

“Wait, did you say ‘Justin?' Do you _know_ Justin Bieber?”

Lance’s answer is to bend down and press a smiling kiss to Keith’s lips.

Lance is a better kisser than he has any right to be – the right rhythm of nips and bites to sucks and sweeps – and Keith can’t help it if his brain takes it to its logical conclusion. He can’t get enough of his body, running his hands over his strong back and the dips of his abs, barely pausing for a moment before he keeps touching this beautiful specimen. This boy, who is the hottest person Keith’s ever hooked up with, who is a fucking Hollywood star, who is making little noises while he sticks his tongue in Keith’s mouth that make Keith feel like he’s one breath away from shaking apart. They need to get a fucking move on.

“Wanna get out of here?” Lance mumbles against his cheek. Right on time.

“Hell yeah,” Keith replies. “My place is a mess, can we go to yours?”

(It’s not, he just doesn’t want to see Lance McClain in the middle of his crappy little apartment with his mismatched plates and card table for a dinner table and smoke-stained hallway. He doesn’t think his pride could handle it.)

“Uh, my place is pretty far from here,” Lance says, “but how about I get us a hotel room? Rodeo Drive’s not too far away. We could go to the Ritz.”

Keith tries and fails not to read between the lines, that Lance doesn’t live closer to here because he lives in Bel-Air or Calabasas or somewhere rich. But the pill of their disparate lives is easier to swallow when it’s a hotel room, and Keith’s too drunk and horny to say no.

“Okay.”

“Awesome, let me call a car,” Lance says, pulling out his phone.

That’s…kinda hot. However…

“I’ve got a better idea,” Keith whispers.

Lance genuinely gasps when he sees Keith’s motorcycle, parked out back in the alley behind the bar. “Oh my God,” he says, “that is so fucking cool.”

Keith grins, walks around to the saddlebags and starts rummaging around. “Ready to learn something about motorcycles?” He says, sounding cocky to cover up the beating of his heart.

He eventually finds his spare helmet, which he keeps in exchange for giving Lance his good helmet, which is a bright red to match the bright red Honda.

“Does it have a name?” Lance asks, taking the helmet.

“Red? I don’t know.”

“ _What?_ Who doesn’t name their motorcycle? It should at least be Scarlet, or Crimson, or Sangria – “

“The most badass name for a motorcycle,” Keith snorts, “Sangria.”

“You know what I mean. _Red_ names.”

“Like Red?”

“Yes, but it’s _boring._ ”

“You think my bike is boring?” Keith deadpans. “Wow. We haven’t even ridden it yet.”

“Let’s fix that.” Lance shoves the helmet on and Keith helps him adjust it, his eyes getting caught on the tufts of brown hair peeking out from under the visor, just above excited bright blue eyes.

He puts his own helmet on with much less finesse, straddles the bike and looks over his shoulder. Lance takes a moment to clumsily walk up, and then swings his leg over in a very promising move. He scooches forward until he’s a line of heat against Keith’s back.

“I’m gonna move with the turns,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice. “So you can lean with me if you want. You just gotta hold on tight.”

“I’m so ready,” Lance says.

Keith’s stomach goes hot. He turns the ignition, roaring in the quiet November air. He kicks the kickstand up and gives a few revs of the gas, just to feel the bike rumble and Lance shiver.

“Ritz on Rodeo Drive?” He yells over the engine. Lance nods.

Keith kicks off on the breaks and rumbles off into the night.

At first Lance can do nothing but grip tightly to Keith’s waist and stay surprisingly quiet. But as they move away from tiny, rumbling residential roads and into the wind-chill stretches of the freeway, he starts to move with it, leaning when Keith leans and slackening his grip. They hit a wide-open stretch of road and Lance gets bold. Keith’s focused on driving and barely realizes when Lance lets go of his waist.

“Lance, what the fuck – “

He can’t see, but he’s pretty sure the shifting behind him means Lance has raised his arms. “Whooo!” He screams, delighted.

“Lance, put your fucking arms down!”

“I’m holding on, I got your hips!” His thighs are, indeed, clenched tight on Keith’s hips, which is lovely and distracting but not very safe.

“Hold _on,_ you fucking maniac!”

Lance sighs and wraps his arms back around Keith’s waist, burrowing his head in the dip between Keith’s shoulder blades.

“No fun,” he replies, panting.

Keith rolls his eyes and doesn’t respond. He’s riding a motorcycle, he’s plenty fucking fun.

They stay like that, tucked together, all the way to Rodeo Drive.

 

* * *

 

 

They offer to valet park his motorcycle and Keith doesn’t know what to do.

They are the picture of customer service, politely looking at him while he gapes like a fish.

“That’d be great, thanks,” Lance says calmly. He plucks the keys out of Keith’s hand and smoothly passes them over. “Thank you.”

He nudges Keith off and into the lobby. Keith follows, like an absolute idiot. The lobby of the Ritz-Carleton Rodeo Drive is big, sleek, shiny and utterly at odds with Keith’s dirty boots and black t-shirt and general person. Lance doesn’t look much better, hair piecey with sweat and his shirt rumpled, but he strides up to the concierge desk like he owns the place, head high and a sunny smile on his face. Keith trails behind, feeling a little like a tramp, unclean, like he should be outside smoking in the alley instead of inside with the perfectly white couches and gleaming glass end tables.

“ – suite would be wonderful, thank you,” Lance is saying.

“And the name for the reservation?” The receptionist asks.

“Ben Sturgeon,” Lance says without pause.

The receptionist nods and types it in. She doesn’t recognize Lance McClain? Who _wouldn’t_ recognize him? (Keith, actually.) Or did she? Keith peers at her, trying to discern.

Keith doesn’t recognize the credit card Lance hands over, but it’s black and shiny and he’s sure the limit is somewhere in the millions. What is he doing here again?

The receptionist hands them a key (“Have a great night, Mr. Sturgeon, and call us if you need anything.”) and Lance once again strides off through the lobby, barely looking back at Keith. It’s mostly deserted, just some staff and a few patrons talking quietly at the dark bar. They pass some massive crystal sculpture on the way to the elevator and Keith’s pretty sure that’s a Jackson Pollock on the wall. He’s getting a mounting urge to flee.

It's not until they’re in the elevator that Lance breaks character. “Sorry,” he says, looking at the floor and ruffling his hair. “I was trying to get us in and out of there without anyone seeing.”

“Did that receptionist really not recognize you?”

“No, she totally did. She’s just used to it. Celebrities use fake names all the time. Keeps fans from knowing where we are.”

Jesus. There were probably _fans_ who cared about this, who might’ve – “Did anyone see us? Any, like, paparazzi?”

“Nah, that’s why we went in the back entrance. We’re fine, I promise.”

Keith keeps staring straight ahead. Through the mirror doors of the elevator, he sees Lance make an aborted move for his hand, but in the end he remains perfectly still.

Once they get in the hotel room – the hotel room which is infinitely larger than Keith’s entire apartment – Lance bustles around in silence, opening doors and closing windows, while Keith sits gingerly on the bed. He’s painfully sober right now, and having a really hard time looking at anything that’s not the floor or his shoes. This was a terrible idea.

“Hey.”

Keith looks up. Lance’s face is soft, his eyes a little sad.

“I know this…whole thing is a lot,” he says sincerely. “I get it. I know it’s not normal. But, like, don’t be afraid of me. I’m still Jenny from the block.”

It startles a laugh out of Keith.

“And right now, all I want is to have a good night with you, maybe pick up where we left off.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want to anymore, in which case I totally get it, no hard feelings, you can take your sexy motorcycle and ride off into the night.”

Keith takes a deep breath, raises his eyes to the hotel room and Lance, smiling hopefully at him.

Bottom line is, he’s in a fluffy king size bed on Rodeo Drive with a hot film star who actually wants to do things with _him._ This is no time for a freak out; this is the time for a story.

“Well, you did already pay for it,” Keith says.

Lance’s face splits open in a grin. Jesus, this boy is beautiful. “Wouldn’t want to waste money,” he replies, leaning in, placing a warm hand on Keith’s thigh.

“We already live in a very wasteful country.” Keith leans in, scooting closer to Lance on the bed. He has no idea what he’s saying.

“Yeah, America’s the worst.” Lance’s eyes are very blue. Very small, but very blue.

“We should be more…” Lance’s nose bumps Keith’s. “Conscientious.”

Keith presses forward, and a millimeter is all it takes for their lips to collide.

They don’t fall into each other as quickly as they had at the bar; sober, with the lights on, in a strange hotel bed, Keith finds his kisses more hesitant, taking time to touch Lance instead of jumping him like before. But eventually, with little actions in between kisses, the mood comes back. Lance turns off the bedside light; Keith gets up to close the blinds; Lance lights a candle on the armoire which was almost certainly meant to be decorative, but they find a lighter in the kitchen. Keith’s never been too fond of kissing on its own, but Lance’s lips are warm and taste faintly of Coke at first until they’ve been at it for a while and then Keith thinks they both start to taste like each other.

Eventually Lance’s fingers trail down Keith’s side to his hip, nudging at the edge of his shirt and the warm skin underneath. “This okay?” He murmurs.

Keith nods, and they break apart so Lance can whisk Keith’s t-shirt off his head. He doesn’t have movie star abs but Keith thinks he doesn’t look too bad; he’s toned from shimmying under bikes all day, and Lance’s eyes go dark in the candlelight.

“Shit,” he says roughly.

Keith grins. “You sure you don’t want to Pretty Woman me? Order up some strawberries and champagne?”

“Didn’t seem like your scene.” Lance bends forward and Keith leans back until his back hits the mattress. “Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s your favorite movie though, secret softie.”

“Hell no.” Keith pauses for dramatic effect. “My favorite movie is Notting Hill.”

Lance laughs, a burst of sunshine. “Yes, absolutely.” He leans down to press a kiss to Keith’s throat, and Keith’s pulse leaps beneath his lips. “Of course the badass motorcycle rider secretly loves rom-coms.”

Lance’s lips trail down, barely hovering over Keith as he flicks a tongue over his nipple. Keith had a snappy retort on his tongue and it burns away.

Last time Keith had a hookup, it was six months ago in the bathroom of a gross biker bar downtown with some random that he was too plastered to remember in the morning. Six months of nothing but his hand have left him pretty desperate, and Lance knows what the fuck he’s doing. He takes his time, doesn’t push, licks his way over Keith’s torso and arms like he’s been paid to do it. Keith doesn’t know how much ass Hollywood stars get, but evidence suggests it’s a ton.

And when he flips Lance over, gets his shirt off…Lance is just so warm. His skin is warm, his eyes are warm, he’s like a lean, lanky fireball, spread out like a masterpiece in the center of the bed. Keith feels like he’s been cold for years.

“Kinda like teenagers,” Keith admits, straddling Lance’s thighs at one point, running blunt nails up and down the rides of his abs. “All above the belt.”

“You are more than welcome to meet the other Lance whenever you are ready.”

“The other Lance? Not little Lance?”

“He’s not very little,” he smirks.

Keith sits back on his haunches, gets easier access to pop open the button and slide down the zipper. He can feel how hard Lance is, bulging against the zipper, and Lance hisses from the brush of Keith’s hands. Keith slides down his black boxer briefs and pauses.

“Yeah, not little,” he says throatily.

Lance arches a brow. Keith leans forward, sealing their mouths together while his fingers dip south, take Lance in his hand and squeeze. Lance moans against his mouth, brings his hands up, scrabbles at Keith’s jeans. Keith kneels awkwardly, flops down on the bed so Lance can tug them off at the ankle. Thank God for this king-size bed, so there’s enough room for them to both flail around in.

Keith climbs back on top. Keeps up with the aimless touching, heat building in his fingertips and deep in his belly. Lance is letting him set the pace, never pushing, looking up at Keith with gentle, bright eyes.

Except this whole night, from the moment Lance talked to him at the bar, has been full speed ahead, all new and fast and glorious. He doesn’t want to slow down, doesn’t want to lose this fire.

He looks eyes with Lance. “Wanna ride you,” he says bluntly.

He can feel Lance’s breath hitch. “Shit, yeah, yeah.”

Keith rises up on his knees, sticks three fingers in his mouth and sucks, gets them wet and sloppy. While Lance watches with blown-out eyes, he reaches behind him, tucks the first finger inside, hisses through the initial burn.

“You,” Lance says, “are incredible.”

Keith grins loosely, chin jutting out, feeling like a god as he tucks the second finger in, starts to scissor himself open. Lance reaches up, runs fingernails over his nipples, his biceps, his hips, the inside of his thighs, avoiding his cock which is blood-stiff and aching against Keith’s belly.

As soon as he manages to fit the third finger in, Keith says, “I’m ready.”

“What, that was so quick, don’t rush – “

“I like it to hurt a little,” Keith says, locking eyes with Lance and beating down the slight embarrassment in his words. “I’m good, I promise.”

He shuffles forward, gets one hand below him, positions Lance so he’s just right.

_This would be a good time to put on a condom,_ he thinks.

But Lance is just so warm.

(Later, when it all comes out, he’ll come back to this moment, this lightning-strike of clarity in the dark haze of that night. The moment when he could’ve, but didn’t.)

He sinks down.

Lance gasps, and Keith has to scrunch up his face, swallow down a huff at the dry intrusion. (Alright, maybe he should’ve prepped more.)

“You alright?” Lance’s hands trace gentle circles on Keith’s hips. No one’s ever done that before.

One more deep breath, and the burn eases from unwelcome to pleasant. “Yeah,” Keith finally says. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He braces his hands on Lance’s chest, starts to rock. Lance grips his hips, finger tracing around to palm at his ass.

“You look so good on my cock,” he says. “Knew you would soon as I saw you. Wanted this ass on me.”

“Yeah?” Keith rises up, drops down.

“ _Fuck,_ yeah. Hottest guy I’ve ever seen, Keith. You have no idea.”

Keith really doesn’t, cause that sound like a lie, but Lance is nice and thick, filling him in all the right places, raw and hot.

“Riding me like you rode that motorcycle.” Lance sounds overwhelmed, pupils huge, sweat in his collarbones. “Your ass was made for me to split.”

Keith throws his head back and bounces, little noises punching out of his throat. He’s slipping, falling away. Lance’s cock hits his prostate and he lights up with it.

“Shit, there it is,” Keith breathes. Lance thrusts in time with Keith’s bounces; hot sparks race up his spine, hitting his fuzzy-white brain. He hasn’t even come and this is already the best sex he’s ever had. Lance is _relentless._

“I’m close,” Lance says, low and guttural. He kicks his legs up on the bed, plants his feet for better leverage on his thrusts. “Can you hold off, pretty boy? Come together?”

“Uh-huh.” Keith is right on the verge but coming together sounds so goddamn hot. “Yeah, yeah.”

Lance furrows his brows and pistons in, abs catching and flexing, fingers leaving marks in the pale of Keith’s ass. Keith draws on what little experience he has with bottoming, remember this one really excellent move some guy did once, and twists on his next thrust down.

“Hnng,” Lance says. Keith smirks.

He can feel it mounting in his belly, his toes, the myopic pleasure that comes just before the release. Lance is close, he can tell, all big eyes and parted lips, fingers clenching.

“Keith,” he says, “Jesus.”

Yes, yes, yes, Keith throws his head back. Yes, Jesus, he thinks he could fly –

Lance grunts, hips thrusting up and sticking, and even through his haze he reaches up and jerks Keith fast and rough. Barely two tugs and Keith flies apart, stars bursting behind his eyes as pulse after pulse fills him up.

He feels like he comes for _ages._ He has to plant his hands on Lance’s chest to prop himself up, hanging his head and panting as he comes back into his body. He’s uncomfortably aware of his asshole, the dual sensations of Lance softening and the warm stickiness of come inside him.

The come-down seems to take longer than usual; Keith feels his body come back in pieces, slow waves bringing him back to earth. Lance keeps up his methodical touches on Keith’s hips.

Shit. _Shit._

“Wow,” he says. Lance chuckles.

“Yeah.”

Keith gingerly eases off and they both out a hiss at the sensation. Keith flops down on the bed, legs aching and ass feeling oddly empty, and Lance gives his side a clumsy pat before getting up and walking into the bathroom.

He comes back with a wet washcloth, and bends down to gently wipe the spunk off Keith’s belly. Keith watches him like a skittish animal, and when Lance makes to spread his legs and clean his ass, he snaps his knees together.

“I can do it.”

“Uhh…yeah? You can?”

Keith takes the washcloth and gives himself two cursory sweeps. Lance watches with a slightly wounded look.

“I didn’t mind.”

Keith doesn’t answer, just gives the washcloth back and snuggles under the cover. He’s exhausted, suddenly, and the room is spinning, reminding him of just how he drank today. It’s hitting him now, as the adrenaline fades.

Lance comes back from the bathroom. He blows out the candle, plunging the room into aromatic darkness, the generic beeswax scent still lingering. Keith feels more than sees as he comes in beside him, a warm aberration.

“Do you like to cuddle?” Lance asks.

The answer is usually no, but Keith’s already half asleep and he’s feeling sensitive.

He scooches over, tucks his face on Lance’s chest and throws a hand over his belly. Lance presses a kiss to the top of his sweaty hair.

Keith’s asleep within moments.

 

* * *

 

 

The room is still dark when Keith wakes up. He shoves his face into the pillow, huffs a few breaths. There’s rustling around him, somewhere else, and it’s only curiosity that makes him open his eyes.

Lance McClain is getting dressed in the dark.

Fuck. They slept together. It hits him again. He fucked _Lance McClain_.

“Good morning,” Lance says, his voice hushed. “Did you sleep okay?”

Keith sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist. He nods.

“This looks really bad,” Lance says, jumping to haul his jeans up his thighs. “I promise I’m not trying to run out on you, I’ve just got meetings really early that I need to get to. But you should totally stay, use the hotel room.”

Keith shakes his head. “Nah, think I’ll go for a ride.” The triumph is starting to set in, as he looks at Lance’s sculpted chest while he shrugs his shirt on. He _tapped_ that.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Lance shoves his shoes on, gathers up his phone and wallet. When he’s got his phone in hand, he looks at Keith, biting his lip and looking very shy.

“Can I get your number? Would that be okay?”

Keith can’t help it; he smiles like a little kid. “Yeah.”

He recites it, and Lance saves it with a dramatic flourish. He leans over the bed, cups a hand on Keith’s jaw, kisses him long and deep. Keith actually leans forward when he’s done, chasing his lips.

“Thanks for a great night,” Lance whispers, all bright eyes and rosy cheeks, totally different than the relentless pounding and filthy words of last night. “I’ll be in touch, okay?”

“Okay,” Keith says dazedly. As Lance is leaving, Keith calls out,

“Try not to think of me during your meeting.”

Lance shoots him a look before he closes the door.

Keith flops down on the bed. He can’t stop grinning.

 

* * *

 

 

He makes his way home after a quick luxurious shower, the last of Lance dripping out of him. He’s pointedly not thinking about the lack of a condom, wanting to live in this wildness for another day.

After the ride, he lets himself into his small, moderately shitty apartment, brews a pot of coffee and fries some bacon. Then, because he lives alone and no one is here to witness this, he goes on his computer and plugs ‘Lance McClain’ into Google.

Lance McClain was born in Varadero Beach, Cuba, on July 28th. He’s currently 21, the same age as Keith. His family moved to LA when he was two, and he started acting in school plays as early as five. His parents were wary of acting, and Lance had to ditch school to audition for ‘Garrison Varsity’ at the age of 14. It was his breakthrough role; his portrayal of Marco Enriquez was hailed by critics, and he made enough to money to move his family out of southeast LA and into Bel-Air. He started in movies at the age of 14, first as supporting roles and then starring alongside big names like Allura Altea, who he’s starred opposite twice now with a third collaboration planned for the spring. Their second film, ‘Windswept,’ garnered an Oscar nomination for Allura Altea and Oscar buzz for Lance, whose portrayal of a teenage runaway from a broken family was critically acclaimed. As far as Keith can tell, the fan pages (and there are many of them) went apeshit and threatened to boycott the Oscars in protest that Lance didn't get a nomination. Still, he’s won five People’s Choice Awards, two Critic’s Choices, one Screen Actor’s Guild Award and was nominated for an Emmy. His net worth (and Keith has to close his eyes when he reads this because he has a rush of vertigo) is $75 million.

$75 million. Keith has about $5,000 in savings right now and he’s pretty proud of that. $75 _million_ is like…like…math that Keith can’t do. But it’s a whole lot more than $5,000.

There is no mention whatsoever of Lance’s sexuality. And every article about his romantic life involves a woman; Allura, mostly, but various co-stars, childhood sweethearts (a girl named Jenny Shaybon is mentioned quite a bit), Selena Gomez in one article. If you knew nothing about Lance McClain but what was written online, you would think he was straight as an arrow.

But Keith knows more. Keith knows that he slept with a closeted movie star. The knowledge makes him sit back in his kitchen stool, take a long sip of his coffee, try to calm his racing thoughts with heat and steam.

Where do they go from here?

Keith’s phone buzzes while he’s at Shiro and Adam’s for dinner.

This is rare enough to make Keith stop mid-bite; the only two people who usually text him are right here. He swallows, pulls out his phone and flicks it open.

_Hi Keith! It’s Lance from last night :P_

The dork actually re-introduced himself, as if there’s another movie star named Lance who Keith is fucking. Keith smiles helplessly.

“Well, that’s not usually the reaction my chicken gets,” Adam says.

“That’s not it,” Shiro says.

“Hey,” Adam huffs.

“No, it’s delicious babe, but Keith’s not smiling at that.” There’s a grin taking over Shiro’s face. “Are you texting a _guy?_ ”

“No, Jesus,” Keith says immediately, shoving his phone back in his pocket. That’s the problem with only having one friend; Shiro’s known everything about Keith since they were teenagers, he can read Keith like a picture book.

“Who is he?” Adam leans forward. “Oh my God, I’ve never seen you smile about a guy before.”

“There’s no guy,” Keith protests. “Funny meme.”

“Bullshit, like you like memes.”

“I like memes!” says Keith, who is struggling at the moment to think of one (1) meme.

“Keeeeeith…”

“It’s okay, babe,” Shiro says. He’s got his I’m-older-so-I- _know_ -things face. He used it prolifically when Keith was a dumbass teenager. “He’ll tell us if it turns out to be something. You’ll bring over for dinner eventually, right?”

“There’s no guy,” Keith says weakly. “You guys are gossips. I’m going to the bathroom.”

“He’s going to text his _boy_ ,” Adam says in a stage whisper as Keith flees.

“Assholes,” Keith mutters as he unzips his fly. “Stupid, committed, happy assholes.”

He finishes, washes his hands, stands and sighs for a few moments.

Then he pulls out his phone.

_I’m sorry, who?_

And then, as quick as he can so Lance doesn’t think he’s serious:

_I thought I slept with Justin Bieber last night._

He sends it and ponders how long he can feasibly stay in this bathroom waiting for a text before Shiro and Adam get suspicious.

Fortunately Lance has as little chill as he does; he writes back 30 seconds later.

  _I can probably manage that. ;P_

_In the meantime, will you settle for me?_

Something hot and giddy fills Keith’s chest like a balloon.

_I guess._

 

* * *

 

 

“Lance, buddy, I’m going to need you to pay a bit more attention in this very important meeting you’re going to then you’re paying to me right now.’

“What?” Lance looks up and sees Hunk’s amused face. “Ugh, I’m sorry, I will, I promise.”

“Okay, sure,” Hunk says with a grin, flicking his blinker and merging onto the highway.

“I’ll be good, I swear!”

“You’ve barely looked up from your phone all day! Keith better have a gold dick if he – “

“Oh my God!” Lance squawks, flailing in place. Hunk cracks up. “I’m going to fire you.”

“Go for it,” Hunk replies calmly. “I’ll finally start that food vlog I’ve been thinking of.”

“I told you, I’ll finance it personally if you promise not to put ‘chunk’ anywhere in the name.”

“But it rhymes with Hunk – “

“Be better, Hunk. Be better.”

Hunk pouts, his big happy face illuminated by the sunshine. Lance slides further down in his seat, flicks open his phone. His latest message from Keith is a response to how his day was going.

_The other guys are arguing about the best barbecue sauce. It’s heated. Families have been threatened. Will keep you updated on the death threats._

See, that’s the thing about Keith. He and Lance live _such_ different lives, in such different worlds. He can’t get enough of Keith’s existence – his days at the motorcycle shop, what he had for dinner, his thoughts on the latest book he's reading. Keith protests that it’s boring, but Lance drinks it up. As much as he likes to declare that he’s still a normal person, celebrity hasn’t changed him (and it hasn’t, compared to some people – not naming names, Miley), the truth is he’s been ‘famous’ since he was 14. He’s forgotten that his life isn’t normal, that there’s a whole world out there that he’s lost touch with. Now there’s this beautiful, funny, abrasive motorcycle mechanic with big violet eyes and a wit like a knife, and Lance needs to call Mariah for help cause he’s _obsessed._

“So I hate to point this out,” Hunk says, and Lance’s stomach sinks, “cause Keith sounds awesome, but you’re going on shoot, like, now. You’re gonna be gone for months.”

“Three months! Maybe shorter!”

“Three months in Georgia,” Hunk says, a little sadly. “I mean, it’s fine for a friend with benefits, but not so good if you want to date him.”

“I don’t want to date him,” Lance says immediately. He’s not out, for one, much as he begs his team. He also doesn’t know the guy enough to date him. He just wants to talk to him, hang out, maybe catch a movie, maybe get some more of that good D again.

Alright, so it kinda sounds like he wants to date him.

“As long as you tell him soon,” Hunk says gently. “So both of you know.”

“Yeah, I will,” Lance says. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Yeah, you are,” Lance says fondly.

Hunk looks over, because that is not the usual Lance McClain sass that he’s come to expect. But it’s true, Hunk is usually right. Hunk is technically his manager, but his job is really Lance’s Official Best Friend. He’s one of the only remnants from Lance’s aborted high school years (and it is very good that Lance left sophomore year because he was _wildly_ unpopular). He met Hunk the first day of freshmen year and they bound together in mutual weirdness and ostracization; they used to whisper together at sleepovers about dreams too big to talk about. Lance wanted to act, Hunk wanted to design special effects, work on big-name projects like mechanical dinosaurs with his preternatural penchant for engineering. Lance got 'Garrison Varsity’ next year, suffered through two years of shitty management and hired Hunk the day after he graduated high school. It’s not special effects, but it’s gotten Hunk connections, experience, people who’ve told him he’d be good at this and encouraged him, all while getting a (very) generous paycheck. He’s taking night classes now while still being the youngest manager in the biz. Lance is his only client and he protects him like a bulldog. If it were up to Hunk, Lance would’ve been out years ago.

Unfortunately, it’s not up to Hunk.

“So when am I gonna meet the _amazing_ Keith?” Hunk asks.

Lance smiles. “Hopefully soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

The best part about being an antisocial motorcycle mechanic is usually that the mornings are completely silent as he rides to work - nobody else is awake, the roads are dead (or as dead as LA ever gets), and Keith gets fifteen minutes of pure silence, just him and the road.

Except that someone's calling him. Keith waits until he's parked right outside work to fish his phone out of his leather jacket, still unclear if it's actually buzzing or if he's hallucinating. Nobody ever calls him, and definitely not this early.

But it keeps buzzing. Lance is calling him.

This is new. “Hello?” Keith answers.

“Hey,” Lance says, and Keith’s lips smile before his brain says anything. “Hey, what’s up?”

“It’s seven in the morning,” Keith points out. “Right now, the sun is up.”

Lance laughs, because apparently he still finds Keith funny even when he didn’t mean to be. “I know, I’m sorry, this is the only free time I have all day. _So_ many meetings.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s, uh…actually why I’m calling you.”

Keith’s never been broken up with before (you’d have to actually have a boyfriend to be broken up with), but from his TV watching that sounds like a break-up line. He swallows down a stab of fear.

“Okay.”

“Okay, well, I’m not sure what we’re doing,” Lance says, voice tight and rushed. “And that’s totally cool, no worries there. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going away for a couple of months on shoot. So I can’t ask you out or see you the way I want to, cause I’m gonna be gone.”

Which is so sweet, so thoughtful. The idea that he doesn’t want Keith to think he abandoned him. Keith feels gooey, like a marshmallow.

Hot on this awesome feeling is another, crappier feeling.

“You’re going away?”

“Yeah. Uh, I’m in this movie, and we’re shooting in Georgia. Like, it’s supposed to be set in some old British town but we’re gonna do it in Georgia cause of tax cuts? I don’t know, man.”

“How long will you be shooting?”

“Two months, at least,” Lance sighs. “Three, if something goes snafu. Which it does, a lot. Best case, I’m back in a month and a half.”

“You sound so gloomy,” Keith says. “Are you not…excited? For this movie?”

“No, I am! I’m super excited, it’s a spy movie that Allura’s in it and they’re saying this could be my shot for an Oscar nom.” There’s a cocky little pride in his words. “No, I’m just kinda gloomy cause, you know…I won’t see you.”

And that’s…

Keith never thought a night at the bar would lead to _this._

“It’s alright,” he says, and he barely recognizes this soft voice. “I’ll be here. Just…hit me up when you come back.”

“I mean, we also have phones,” Lance says. “I don’t need to wait for your telegram. We can talk every day if we want. I mean, I might not be able to, because of the whole movie thing, but…”

“That sounds good, Lance.” Should he be saying more? Telling Lance how exciting this is for him? Tell him that he feels alive in a way he hasn’t in years? He’s not sure what to do, he’s never had training for this.

Luckily, Lance doesn’t seem to need that from him. “Awesome,” he says, relieved. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Keith snorts. “Right down to the wire there.”

“Hey,” Lance protests. “I’m just acquainting you now with the hot mess of my life. Getting it out of the way, so you know I’m not a functioning adult.”

Functioning adults use condoms, Keith’s hindbrain speaks up. He beats it down with a baseball bat. “Lifestyles of the rich and famous, I guess. Don’t know what I was expecting.”

“You weren’t expecting me,” Lance says, cocksure and proud.

“Yeah, that’s the understatement of the year.”

 

* * *

 

 

So Lance flies to Georgia, and Keith’s life continues the way it did before the blip of hot movie star came along. Keith knows his life is pretty lonely, and he’s sure therapists would have quite a bit to say about how few people he talks to in a day. But Keith was a solitary child, and he’s become a solitary adult, and most of the time it works for him. He gets along fine with he guys at work, fixes bikes and occasionally chats with his customers. He reads, a lot (he’s on a first name basis with the local librarians), watches TV, plays video games, thinks about getting a cat and talks himself out of it every time. He goes on long rides around LA, wind in his hair and white noise in his brain. It’s enough, usually. He doesn’t take it for granted, after growing up the way he did.

Shiro is the anomaly, but there was no way they could be anything but close. They met as foster brothers, just two forgotten kids in the system. Shiro was in high school, about to enlist, firm and principled and determined to make something of himself. Keith was in middle school, with a split lip and a chip on his shoulder, ready to fight anyone who even looked twice at him. They were only in the same home together for six months, but their bond lasted through Shiro’s first two tours and his subsequent recovery, through every disciplinary issue and every home Keith got pushed to. It was Shiro who bought Keith his first motorcycle, a black Suzuki as a present for graduating high school. Keith has dinner there once a week and will be Shiro’s best man when they finally plan the fucking wedding. Shiro tells him Keith’s done as much for him as he ever did for Keith. Privately, Keith thinks that’s not possible. Without Shiro, he’d have followed his baser instincts and been on the run, or in jail. He tried to help Shiro when he came back from his second tour missing an arm, but he’s not sure what he was actually able to do, what he provided Shiro that all the army doctors couldn’t provide. At best, all Shiro can say is that Keith is his punk little brother with no friends. It’s not the same.

Into this little existence comes Lance. Lance, who texts Keith at weird hours, little things like ‘Do you think male ladybugs have a difficult time with their masculinity?’ and ‘Muenster cheese is the devil. There, I said it.’ True to his word, he doesn’t text regularly; he’ll drop off the map for a day or two, then come back and text every ten minutes the next day. He seems to not want to talk about his actual acting, keeps the texts light and inconsequential. Keith thinks that he’s trying not to scare him off with the actual details of his job.

That’s okay, because Keith has become way too knowledgeable about Lance McClain. It starts with buying a Star magazine because Lance’s face is on the front and he wants to know what’s written. Then he trolls People online for every article ever written about Lance (he gives up when he sees there are thousands).

But then he sees a little pop-up advertisement. ‘Get notified for all the news of your favorite stars! Subscribe for alerts now!’

He resists for a week. But one night, when he’s a little tipsy and watching reruns of ‘Garrison Varsity’ on Netflix (and thinking of last night, his furtive masturbation session, feet kicked up on the bed and fist flying and particular name on his breath as he came), he plugs in his phone number.

Now every day he gets alerts about all manner of celebrities. But there’s only one name he cares about.

 

* * *

 

 

“Lance Alejandro McClain Sanchez, you will tell me who you’re texting and you will do it _now._ ”

Lance about shits himself, almost dropping his phone as Allura strides into his trailer. “Who the fuck gave you the key to my trailer?”

“Hunk, obviously.” She’s still in costume, a pristine black pantsuit, silver-blonde hair up in a severe bun, and she’s holding a cup of black coffee in one hand and one of her pet mice in the other. She drops down onto Lance’s couch and grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“What else did Hunk tell you?” He asks, because he’s seen that look before.

“That _you,_ ” she sing-songs, “have a new friend!”

Lance groans. “Hunk lies. I have no friends. No one likes me and I like no one. We’re not friends.”

“Laaaaaance…” Her British accent (which Lance still thinks is part of the reason she’s famous) makes it sounds like ‘Loooooonce.’ “I just want to _know._ You wouldn’t keep something like this from your _dearest_ friend.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” Lance grins, sitting up and grabbing his phone. “His name is Keith and he’s so pretty and he’s a motorcycle mechanic and he’s super sexy and funny and he fucks like a god and did I mention he’s _pretty?_ ”

“Oh my God!” Allura sits up with a gasp, making her mouse startle and chirrup. “Oh my God you already slept with him? Oh my God, Lance!”

“Like two weeks ago, back in LA. Allura, he’s the nicest, he’s – okay, so he’s not nice, but he’s so cool and we’ve been texting and it’s amazing.”

“It’s a he,” Allura points out, with a worried, pained look on her face. “Oh, Lance…”

“I’m working on it,” he says, because he is. Regardless of Keith, he’s been working on coming out as bi for years. “We’re not there yet, anyway, we’re just talking.”

“Do you have a picture? I want to see!”

“No, he won’t send me a selfie cause he says that’s basic white girl shit – “

Allura laughs heartily, takes a sip of her coffee.

“But he’s got the most amazing purple eyes, and black hair, and pretty lips. He’s kinda short, he’s Korean, his hands are nice and calloused and he’s…” Lance trails off. “He’s awesome.”

“I haven’t heard you talk like this about someone in a while,” Allura says. She rests her head in her chin. Her voice is gentle.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Especially with, you know.” He gestured around him, indicating Georgia, acting, their entire famous lives. “But I…I really hope it works out. I want to get to know him.”

“That’s amazing, Lance.” Her smile is genuine and beaming, and Lance has seen it a thousand times on camera and it’s _so_ much better in person. “I’m really glad you found that.”

“Thanks, Lura.”

Coran, Allura’s longtime PA, pokes his head in the door. “You kids up to trouble?”

“Always,” they reply in sync. Coran shakes his head. He’s one of the few people in the industry to really get Lance and Allura’s friendship. He was the one who subtly convinced the director and screenwriter to make Allura’s love interest the other male actor, in the interest of bettering the story. Lance is beyond grateful; he might’ve had a crush on Allura when they first starred together in high school, but after two movies and countless months on set together, she’s now more of a sister and confidante than anything. They couldn’t stop giggling during kissing scenes for their last movie; the director was one second from throttling them.

“Allura, they need you at stage 3,” Coran told her. “There’s a few pick-ups they want you to do with Roland.”

“I figured. He’s quite good but he’s not the best at nailing shots on the first take.”

Which is a typical polite Allura response. Lance would’ve said, ‘Roland drives the directors crazy cause he makes dumb faces at the second cameras that no one notices until they’re watching the footage and realize they need a different angle and Roland’s ruined the take.’

“Tell Keith I say hi,” she says ominously, scooping up her mouse and heading out.

“Who’s _Keith?_ ” Coran says, immediately interested.

“I’ll tell you all about it, Coran!” Allura’s voice floats into the trailer.

Lance throws his head back and groans.

That night is the first in a while that Lance hasn’t had a night shoot. (This director _loves_ his night shoots.) After dinner, curled up in his trailer with his most stretched-out, threadbare sweatpants, Lance really should run some lines.

Instead he calls Keith.

“Hello?” Keith says.

“Hey, it’s Lance.” He’s still not sure how okay this is, if Keith wants him to call or maybe they should stick to text. He’s feeling his way through this in the dark; a career in acting has left him with pretty little knowledge of actual dating practices, and he’s hardly ever had time for more than hookups with people. He’s never felt this way about a guy before, ever.

“Hello, Lance,” Keith says, and it sounds fondly amused.

“Wasn’t sure if you were still at work,” Lance says.

“It’s eight o’clock. You do know Georgia’s not in another continent, right? You’re only three hours ahead.”

“Math isn’t my strong suit,” he protests. “They hired me cause I’m pretty, not cause I’m smart.”

“Just what Hollywood needs, another dumb actor.”

“ _Hey –_ “

“I’m sorry, I was kidding,” Keith says quickly.

Lance deflates. “Good.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Cause I graduated high school, even doing a movie and a TV show – “

“I run my mouth sometimes,” Keith says. “It gets me in trouble a lot. So don’t…take anything I say seriously, okay?”

“Okay,” Lance says, and then manages to smile. “Look at you, rough n’tumble motorcycle mechanic with the bad mouth and a heart of gold.”

“You are really fixated on the mechanic thing.”

“It is _so hot._ ”

“No it’s not, I work with a bunch of Republicans with beer bellies. Some days all I eat for lunch are corn chips. Half of my customers are idiots and the other half are racists.”

“…But you’re covered in grease,” Lance protests. Because damn it, his spank bank _needs_ this image and Keith is _not_ going to ruin it with reality.

Keith sighs. “Sure. I am covered in grease."

“Woot!”

“Do you like that image that much?”

“It may have been used recently,” Lance says, with as little embarrassment as he can muster. He’s never going to be good at being sexy when he’s not in front of the person; his teenage self-esteem will always take over, convinced the other person doesn’t find him attractive unless he’s faced with physical evidence to the contrary.

Keith’s silent for long enough that Lance becomes very, very nervous. Finally, he says, a little throatily,

“That’s, uh…that’s very flattering.”

“Mm.”

“I might’ve…also indulged. The other night.”

Lance can’t help but snort.

“What?”

“What a couple of losers,” Lance says. “Too embarrassed to say we’re jerking it to each other.”

(Even though the idea of Keith touching himself to the memory of Lance is so fucking sexy that Lance stirs in his pants and has to take a deep breath, freeze the image for later and focus on the conversation at hand.)

Keith laughs, small and soft. “I mean, I kinda thought you’d be drowning in girls on the set of a big Hollywood movie.”

Lance’s default reaction to that is self-deprecating truth (“I spend too much time eating nachos and crying for that to be true!”) But today he’s feeling cocky, wants Keith to think he’s a big shot.

“Sometimes,” he says casually. “But, you know. That’s Tinseltown.”

“Oh,” Keith says.

“So tell me about the shop today!”

“Uh. You know. Idiots with motorcycles.”

“None of the other guys got in a fight about food?”

“Not today.”

Lance is getting the very distinct, very familiar feeling that he’s done something wrong. “Well, we had a _very_ disastrous day on set,” he babbles, desperate to fill the silence. “Food service didn’t properly label the food so the second assistant director had an allergic reaction to shellfish. He puffed up like a balloon, medics had to be called, he got epipenned in the leg, shit was wild.”

Keith huffs, a sour little excuse for a laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, we couldn’t shoot for like three hours. Everyone was losing their minds.”

“What did you do during those three hours?”

“If you ask the director, we were running lines. If you ask Hunk, we were playing with Allura’s mice and throwing popcorn at each other.”

“And they pay you millions for this?”

“Absolutely,” Lance replies. “And, you know. Last night up until eleven in a suit, shooting at things in an old mansion.”

“I used to love shooting,” Keith says. Lance _loves_ this, when Keith opens up and shares little glimmers of himself. He’s still such a mystery to Lance. “My friends in high school used to drive out to the desert. Ride bikes, shoot guns, drink whiskey.”

“Damn, sounds like the start of a good movie.”

“Lance McClain as Keith Kogane?”

“I’d have to actually know something about motorcycles, probably.”

“Probably.”

“Can’t be too hard. Rev rev. Saddle bags. Vroom.”

“Never set foot in my shop, ever. Did you really say ‘vroom?’”

“Pretty face, Keith. Not a genius.”

“Clearly.” Lance still thinks he can hear the smile, and he thinks that’s enough of a recovery for tonight.

“Hey, I gotta hit the hay,” he says, “Big day tomorrow. But you sleep tight, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. You too.” Keith’s not big on goodnights.

“I hope your day goes well tomorrow,” Lance says, and means it.

“You too, movie star.”

“Night.”

“Night.” Keith clicks off. Lance looks down at his phone.

There’s still so much more he wants to say.

 

* * *

 

 

The notification comes in the middle of September, when Keith is down with a full-body ache he can't shake.

_Lance McClain and Allura Altea – giving love a try once again? Head to People.com for the full story!_

Notifications like these weren’t uncommon; if People was to be believed, Lance had dated every female-bodied human in the LA metropolitan area. But this one…

_Love may be in the air for our favorite will-they-won’t-they couples! Lance McClain, 21, and Allura Altea, 23, co-stars in the upcoming spy thriller ‘Edge of a Knife’, were spotted getting cozy at a coffee shop near their set in Macon, Georgia. An observer described them as looking ‘quite flirty…Lance kept laughing and touching her arm, and Allura played with her hair and leaned forward to listen to him better.’_

_Lance and Allura have been a suspected romantic couple since Allura first guest-starred on 'Garrison Varsity' and especially after their first starring role together, in ‘Sealed with a Kiss.’ Neither party has ever commented on the rumors, and perhaps this newest feature film will lead to sparks flying! See below for pictures of Lance and Allura throughout the years!_

The first picture under the article is a teenage Lance, beaming on the red carpet next to a stunning young woman, whose ill-fitting pink dress does nothing to diminish the fact that she’s one of the most beautiful humans Keith has ever seen. He closes the article and Googles ‘Allura Altea’, pulling up a more recent picture. Fuck, she’s even prettier now. All long limbs and dark glowing skin and a silvery waterfall of thick hair.

Keith puts his phone away and stalks over to his work station. It’s fine. He and Lance aren’t monogamous, hell, aren’t even dating, and Lance is rich and famous. So what if the guy he fucked once is dating gorgeous women.

The guy he fucked without a condom, once.

Because that thought is popping up more and more lately. It feels like a bad decision made in a dream, something Keith would never do. He’s only fucked bareback once, at the end of high school when he was very dumb and very angry and required no convincing at all from a hot older guy to forgo the condom and have awesome hate-sex. He heard through the grapevine that the guy had herpes, panicked and got a barrage of STD tests, and when they came back clear he always insisted on a condom after that. Most guys he sleeps with don’t have a problem, insist on it as well. He has no idea what was wrong with him and Lance, why they didn’t even talk about it.

Keith puts it off for as long as he can, because he’s good at barreling through things. He goes to work and goes to Shiro’s and texts Lance and ignores how off he feels. He takes cold medicine and leftover antibiotics from a dental procedure and still feels off, still feels tired and achy and weird. He doesn’t think the word, because once he thinks it, it’ll be real.

“How’s your boy?” Adam asks conspiratorially one night at dinner.

Keith’s stomach drops. “He’s fine,” he says. Lance texted him a few hours ago. He hasn’t responded.

Truth is, he doesn’t know Lance is fine. They haven’t been talking as much; Keith looked it up, and it turns out this film is more intense than Lance would have him believe. There are a ton of dialect coaches and props guys and the firearms training alone is extensive. The film is also plagued by trouble, according to the article; the director and screenwriter are clashing and forcing innumerable edits and rewrites. Lance goes four days once without texting; when he does call on the fifth day, he’s exhausted, talking for ten minutes before begging off to get some sleep. Keith can’t keep him on the phone when he’s dozing off, just like he can’t stop his treacherous brain from wondering if he’s going to sleep with Allura.

Everything had seemed so bright for a minute. Now Keith feels like he’s staring down the barrel of something dark, about to eclipse every tiny piece of lightning that Keith was just starting to enjoy.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith makes it two months before he can’t take it anymore. He’s standing in the shower, rubbing Irish Spring perfunctorily over himself, when it catches on his nipple and he hisses in pain.

He looks down, staring at his chest like it’s going to talk to him. _Fuck_ , he thinks, blankly. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ An extra _fuck_ for good measure.

A normal person would go to the store and buy a test. Keith calls out sick and rides down to the nearest office that will take him today. (He still can’t say it, just typed in ‘male obstetrics’ in the search and fumbled through the calls.) It’s all the way out in Culver City, which is a way nicer neighborhood than where he is, and the long ride does a lot to clear his head, get rid of the everything but the rush of wind.

He’s glad for the ride, that is, until he gets to the doctor’s office and they ask him to pee in a cup to check in, so they can do a test. Then he’s sitting in the waiting room when his stomach flips with acute nausea.

Maybe the ride wasn’t a great idea after all.

Maybe it’s that he’s here, in this waiting room with magazines like ‘Parenthood’ and ‘Child Development’, with all these couples with bellies like beach balls, and there’s a lady here who’s… _that_ and has a baby to boot, looking at Keith with bug eyes, and Keith is sitting there alone in his leather jacket, young and stupid and dumb enough to fuck someone without a condom –

He feels the spike of bile and swallows it down.

It rises up again, hot and pungent.

Keith pinches his lips together, stumbles out to the tiny courtyard, and vomits in a potted ficus.

It’s disgusting, dripping down his lips, nose streaming with snot. He hacks it up, tastes the hash browns he has this morning. He’s crying too, he feels it, all of it falling down his face, cause if he’s puking that means – that means –

“Oh, God, gross.”

Keith looks up with his whole face covered in various fluids to see the blurry image of a small, androgynous person with massive round glasses.

Keith can’t even defend himself because he feels another wave push up through his throat and he ducks his head, vomiting up a whole new wave.

When he resurfaces the tiny person is still there, only this time they’re holding a handful of wet paper towels.

“I come out for fresh air and I see this.”

“Sorry,” Keith croaks, taking the paper towels. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He wipes off his face, takes a separate paper towel just to rub at his eyes. He feels instantly better, though still mortified.

“My name’s Keith,” he says, for no good reason.

“Pidge,” they reply. Keith thinks it’s a girl, judging by the height and tiny, delicate wrists, but they’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and chunky sneakers. Their backpack is covered in pins and stickers. They seem content to lean against the wall, stare up at the sky.

“What’re your pronouns?” Keith asks, before he gets too deep.

Pidge seems pleasantly surprised to be asked. “She/her,” she replies. “For now.”

Keith smiles. “And what’re you in for?” He says, weakly funny.

“Well, judging by the vom, I’m here for the same reason you are.”

When Keith looks blankly at her, she purses her lips and presses a hand fleetingly against her flat stomach. Keith’s breath catches. Oh.

“I’m not,” he says automatically. “Or, well, I’m not sure yet. Getting that tested today.”

“Got it,” she replies, with a look that says she already knows what the answer of the test is going to be. Keith does too, if he’s honest, he just doesn’t want to admit.

(He thought about it. He thought, _I should wear a condom._ He didn’t. He fucking didn’t.)

Keith stands up, sending up a mental prayer for the poor ficus. He could go back inside but Pidge is right, the fresh air is wonderful. And that way he doesn’t have to look at anyone.

He sneaks a glance over. Pidge is young. He knows she's probably thinking the same thing about him, but she is _really_ young. Like, teenager young.

One of her innumerable pins catches his eye.

“You play Zelda?”

Her eyes light up. “Yeah, I love it. Been my favorite since I was a kid.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Twilight Princess,” she says, no hesitation. “Best storytelling. Awesome fights, great boss.”

“That’s a good one,” Keith agrees. “I’m always gonna ride or die for Ocarina of Time, though.”

“ _Classic_ ,” Pidge says with a grin. “That was the first Zelda I ever played. _Such_ a great story.”

“What’d you think of Skyward Sword?”

Pidge adjusts her glasses. “Obviously the concept is great, but I felt that the gameplay was too familiar and ultimately Nintendo really needed to update the mechanics for modern gaming platforms and landscapes. Ultimately it set up Breath of the Wild and for that it does deserve praise but it did nothing to reinvent the genre.”

"That’s literally exactly what I thought,” Keith says. “Except said, like, a million times better than I would have.”

Pidge flashes a smile. “That’s what I do.”

They’re off to the races after that, talking about videogames from N64 Mario Kart to the latest Call of Duty. Pidge is clearly not just smart but some form of savant; her recollection of tiny plot points is astounding. She’s not afraid to tell Keith he’s “so wrong it would take me ten years to explain all the reasons why”; on the flip side, she doesn’t even blink when Keith calls her a 'demented little troll’ regarding her opinions on Halo, just grins in acknowledgment and proceeds to defend her position. Keith doesn’t even realize the knot in his stomach has dissipated until the nurse pokes her head into the courtyard and says, “Mr. Kogane, we’re ready for you.” Then it returns, ten-fold.

“I gotta…” he trails off, helplessly.

Pidge nods. “Good luck.”

He nods, turns to follow the nurse.

“Hey, Keith?”

He turns. She’s got a strange look on her face; part hope, part embarrassment.

“Would you want to hang out and play video games sometime?”

Keith smiles. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Cool,” Pidge says, with strange relief. “Yeah, here’s my card, just call.”

She pulls out a business card, shades of green and gray that Keith barely gets a chance to look at before he remembers the nurse waiting patiently behind him.

“See you later,” he calls, and Pidge gives him a two-fingered salute as he walks inside.

With every step behind the nurse down the sanitized hallway, Keith’s adrenaline spikes until his heart is in his throat and he feels like he’s about to run an Olympic mile. He can barely hear her through the pounding in his ears when she instructs him to put on the cotton gown. _Fuck._ He strips his jeans with shaking fingers. _Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck._

He sits in the hospital bed, paper crinkling beneath his ass, struggling to breath. _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ like a drumbeat.

The arrival of the doctor kicks his anxiety into high gear. She’s tall and blonde, with square-rimmed lasses and burn marks on her hands.

“Hello, Mr. Kogane,” she says. “How are you today?”

Keith thinks, for a wild moment, that he’ll vomit if he opens his mouth.

“Good,” he says wetly. He’s so far from good that he’s on Mars and good is in the Marianas Trench.

“I’m Dr. Rosenthal, I’ll be taking a look at you today.” She goes to the sink, starts washing her hands. “What’s troubling you today?”

“I need a pregnancy test,” Keith says, the words scalding as they leave his mouth. The first time saying the word ‘pregnancy’ and he wants to spit it out, never taste it again.

“Okay,” she says amiably. “Have you already taken a home pregnancy test?”

He shakes his head.

“Have you had unprotected sex recently?”

He nods, a blush crawling up his face. What this doctor must think of him –

“Okay, got it,” she says, in the same calm voice as before. “What symptoms have you been having?”

“Tired. Feel off. Puked earlier today. My, uh…” He looks down at the floor to avoid her eyes. “My nipples are, uh. Sensitive.”

“Sounds par for the course,” she says, pulling out a file. “Let’s see if they already ran the test, otherwise I’ll run it and I’ll just be another few minutes…okay, good, they’ve already got it – “

Keith’s heart tries its best to beat out of his chest.

“You were correct, it’s positive. You are pregnant, Mr. Kogane.”

Oh.

_Fuck._

(He thought about it. _He thought about it._ He thought about it but he fucking didn’t, he fucking didn’t wear a condom.)

“Fuck,” he says, softly.

Dr. Rosenthal’s eyes are very bright behind her glasses. “Not the happiest of discoveries?”

He shrugs helplessly. He feels like crying, stupidly. He hasn’t cried since middle school, but now his eyes are prickly and hot.

(Fuck. Lance. _Fuck._ )

“You’d be surprised how often I hear that,” she continues. “Well, you’re probably not very far along, you’ve got options. We can do an ultrasound, figure out exact weeks – "

“I know the weeks,” he says. His voice is fragile. He feels like he’s swimming somewhere outside his body (this stupid, malfunctioning, _shared_ body.) “It’s eight weeks.”

She nods, marks something in his file. “Got it. Do you want to do an ultrasound anyway, see how everything’s going? Totally optional, I don’t need it.”

“I can’t,” Keith says. If he looks at it he’ll break, and his pride can’t handle puking and crying at the doctor’s office.

“Okay,” she says. She seems to have caught onto Keith’s level of freak out. “Well, you’ve got options, like I said. I’m going to give you some pamphlets, more information. If you decide to continue the pregnancy give us a call and we can take care of you. If you decide on termination I’ll have to refer you to another office, but I know multiple great doctors who will take good care of you.”

Keith nods. His words are dried up.

She grabs quite a few pamphlets, eases them into Keith’s hands.

“It’s going to be okay, whatever you decide.” Her voice is calm, reassuring, steady.

Keith doesn’t believe her for a second.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets out of the doctor’s office and rides. He doesn’t go back to his apartment, just hits the freeway and goes. The concentration keeps his brain from spiraling and he can pretend the hammering of his heart is just adrenaline, not the pamphlets burning a hole in his pocket.

He rides for so long the sun is setting and he’s shaking when he finally dismounts at his apartment. He goes inside, goes to open a beer – _shit, no, you can’t drink, fuck_ – and gets so agitated he goes right to bed. He tosses and turns for hours and gets a pitiful hour or two of sleep.

(He should call Shiro. He should call Lance. He should get vitamins. He should get this fucking thing out of him. He should’ve saved more money. He should’ve worn a _goddamn motherfucking horsecunt condom._ )

Work the next day is a blessed relief, a return to monotony and familiarity. He sits in the breakroom, listens to Sendak and Thrace and all the other assholes yell and bicker.

Lance texts him at noon. Something innocuous about whatever funny thing Hunk, his manager, said today. Keith reads it, promptly goes to the bathroom to vomit, pretends those two incidents aren’t related.

He’s avoiding thinking about it the way you avoid a hot stove top; every time his mind gets close, some stray thought about _morning sickness_ or _procedure_ or _fuck I’m gonna need stretchy pants_ or anything resembling _baby_ , he feels the heat on his hand and jerks it away from the fire. He’s known about it for 24 hours now and he hasn’t actually thought about it once.

He gets off work to his quiet, lonely apartment and realizes very quickly that being alone with himself tonight is an absolutely horrible idea.

He digs around in last night’s jeans and pulls out Pidge’s card.

The card is professional, thick heavy stock. It reads ‘Pidge Holt – Technical Services’ and then ‘Coding, Web Development, Software Engineering, Hacking.’ There’s an avatar there, a little drawing of Pidge with blocky hair and mad-scientist swirls in her glasses. Keith raises an eyebrow and dials the phone number listed there.

“Talk to me,” she says as a greeting.

“Uh…Pidge?”

“That’s me.”

“It’s Keith? From the, uh…doctor’s office.”

“Oh, hey.” Her voice softens. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” _Just losing my mind._ “What about you?”

“Planning the inevitable robot invasion,” she answers. “The usual.”

He smiles, despite himself. “Cool. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tonight? Play some Zelda?”

“Yeah, that sounds awesome. Now? We could order pizza?”

“Yes,” Keith says, and feels like crying because he doesn’t know how this virtual stranger seems to know exactly what he needs. “That sounds good.”

Pidge gives him an address in Culver City, and Keith gets back on his bike and rides over. The address is for a cool brick apartment building with a nice shaded area for Keith to park his motorcycle. He rings the bell for apartment number 5 and gets buzzed up.

When he knocks on the door, Pidge answers in basketball shorts and a loose t-shirt, frizzy hair standing up. “Hey Keith,” she says with a smile. “Come on in.”

Keith just nods and walks in, because he’s just realizing this is the first time he’s hung out with someone who wasn’t Shiro in, like, a year and he’s a little terrified.

“Shit,” he says, as he looks around. “This apartment is _nice._ ”

It’s big, one open-plan room with tall ceilings. There’s a lofted bedroom up a ladder, a kitchen that looks like it’s used more as a place to store food than to cook it, a big couch piled high with fluffy blankets. It’s a strange mix of science and nature; there’s a cluster of potted plants by the wide window and the whole color scheme is green, but there are three computers and five screens at a desk in the corner, phone chargers plugged in every five feet along the wall, and there are so many remotes on the coffee table that Keith feels like he’s in a RadioShack.

“Thanks,” she says, flicking through her phone. “I was gonna order Papa John’s, does that sound okay?”

“I normally go for Domino’s.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” she replies, “very, very wrong. We’re ordering Papa John’s and I’m going to blow your mind. Why don’t you pick a game?”

She gestures to a cabinet, completely full of video games. Keith kneels down to properly look through, thrilled at the sheer variety, games from fluffy Harry Potter movie companions to hardcore Halo and Call of Duty. She has every Zelda game ever created, and he ends up selecting Twilight Princess. He doesn’t know much about making friends, but he figures letting them play their favorite video game is a good way to start.

Pidge blows that all out of the water. “You didn’t have to pick that one just cause it’s my favorite,” she says as she sits down. “You could’ve picked whatever you wanted.”

Keith’s blush climbs up his neck all the way to his ears. He has no idea what to say.

“It’s fine, this is my favorite. I’m always happy to play it.” She picks up the controller, tucks her feet under her, looking like a little gopher in the pile of blankets behind her. She flicks her eyes over to him, passes him the controller. “It’s just single-player, so you can go first.”

They start from the beginning. Keith forgot how much he loves this game, the story behind it; he hasn’t played it since he was in middle school, at some foster family. He made no friends that year, just played Zelda games instead of socializing. The pizza arrives twenty minutes later and Pidge heads downstairs to collect it before Keith can even reach for his wallet. He makes a frantic internal promise to pay for everything the next time they hang out.

Pidge comes back up with two steaming pies, each of which comes with a little dish of garlic sauce. She nudges it over to Keith, who dips in his meat-lovers pie and takes a hesitant bite.

“Fuck,” he says once he’s chewed and swallowed, the pizza still warm and fragrant in his mouth. “You were right. Way better than Domino’s.”

“That’s what I do,” she says smugly.

“You were wrong about that last temple. I told you you needed to use Epona and you didn’t then you died.”

“I didn’t think Epona was necessary!”

“Epona is _always_ necessary,” Keith says.

They play in contented silence, switching off the controller, as the sun sets behind the windows. Pidge is a quick player in the battles but wants to hear the explanations and backstory too, and Keith gets to relive his childhood listening to Midori explain the gameplay. After an hour Keith excuses himself to the bathroom, which is the least cluttered girl’s bathroom he’s ever seen, nothing but a toothpaste and face wash instead of the shelves of creams and lotions like all the foster sisters he ever had. When he comes back out he spots a couple of moving boxes stacked quietly in the corner, forlorn in the blue-orange twilight.

“Are you moving?” He asks when he comes back out.

“Yeah,” Pidge says, flicking through her phone as the pause screen blinks on the television.

“Why? This apartment is _amazing_.” Keith would kill to have this apartment. It’s the single coolest apartment he’s ever seen.

“I have to,” she says, looking up at him through her massive glasses. “I need a two-bedroom apartment when the baby comes.”

For a while there, Keith had actually forgotten.

But with her words, it all rushes back – the doctor’s office and the hotel room and his sore nipples and the anxiety and Shiro and the pamphlets and abortion and _Lance_.

“Oh,” he says, and sits down next to her.

The tender twilight atmosphere is too emotional for him, all of a sudden, after an hour of careless Zelda. He gets the urge to cuddle up under one of her innumerable blankets.

“So what was the result of the test?” She asks.

“Positive.”

She nods. “Congratulations,” she says wryly, heavily.

He can tell she’s not expecting an answer, which makes it easier.

“How far are you? In it?” He asks instead.

“Ten weeks.”

He looks down at the blanket, drums his fingers against his leg.

“How about you?” She prods. Keith ducks his head, feels a flinch of regret at this poor person who has to deal with his shitty conversation skills. Shiro’s used to it by now; Pidge has no idea how terrible he is at human interaction.

“Eight weeks,” he says. “So we’re basically the same.”

“Sounds like.”

“How old are you?” He can’t help but ask.

“Nineteen.” Pidge looks him dead in the eye as she says it, forces him to break eye contact on his own. She is a teenager, he was right. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything, but she must’ve seen his facial expression before, maybe on family and friends, because she gets defensive quickly. “Well, how old are you?” She shoots back.

“Twenty-one.”

“Basically the same,” she retorts, an echo of his earlier comment.

Keith shrugs. He’s in no position to judge. He supposes he’s pregnant out of wedlock too.

“Are you in college?” He asks instead.

“Yeah, part-time. Rest of the time I run my business.” She gestures at all of the computers. “You?”

“No, it was never really an option.” Keith at eighteen had neither the money, the aptitude or the temperament for college. “I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”

Pidge nods approvingly. “That’s a tough profession for a pregnant guy.”

It takes Keith a moment to process that _he’s_ the pregnant guy. “Yeah,” is all he says.

“Are you…do you know what you’re gonna do?”

Keith looks down at the congealed pizza cooling on the coffee table, at the blinking pause screen throwing garish light over the darkened room.

“No,” he says with a desperate laugh. “No, I have no clue.”

She looks at him with empathy, arms wrapped around her shins. He can stand to look right at her young face though, because there’s not a trace of pity.

“You’re having it?” He asks. Maybe there’s some advice she can give, some lamp in the darkness.

“Yes.” The word is thick with something; fear, helplessness, resolution, pain. Maybe all of the above.

“Why?” It’s not a polite question but they’ve already come so far. Keith knows his girl better than co-workers he’s known for years.

Pidge averts her eyes, drops her mouth and chin to the tops of her knees. “No good reason,” she says quietly, words muffled as her mouth shapes the words against her kneecaps. “Just…not a good enough reason not to.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows there’s something she’s not saying, knows that there’s a reason neither of them have mentioned the fathers, the other half of these unplanned pregnancies. But if he pries then Pidge will pry right back, so he’s more than happy to leave it well alone.

“But I would never judge,” she says quickly, fiercely. “If you decide to abort. I’d never judge, and I’d still want to hang out.”

“Even if we’re not pregnant together?” Keith says, surprised that he’s smiling.

“Even if we’re not pregnant together. Cause then I’ll make you run out and get me pickles and ice cream.”

Keith makes a face. “That can’t be real.”

“We’ll see,” she says ominously. “Come on. This is the best temple, it’s your turn.”

Keith grabs the controller and starts back up with a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

He makes it to Saturday and wakes up with nothing to do that day. He lays in bed with his sheets that need washing and his room that needs decorating and stares at the ceiling with his head blissfully empty. He goes to the kitchen in his boxers and ratty t-shirt, makes bacon and eggs and a cup of coffee. Then he finally pulls out the pamphlets which have been stuffed behind his laptop and ignored for a week.

And he actually starts to think about what he’s going to do about this pregnancy.

He has to come to terms with it, he knows, before he even makes decisions about it. This has never been in the life plan, if there ever was one. Male pregnancy is still slightly taboo, slightly looked down upon. Throughout history, men who have chosen to bear children are the nurturers, the househusbands, the ones who stay home in the stories while the warriors fight for glory. Congress just had the first sitting male member to announce his pregnancy, and conservatives were up in arms. Scientists believe that men evolved the ability to bear children after women, just a far enough gap that social roles that already been established and were hard to break even when men became fertile as well. Keith learned all this in high school biology and thought, _That’ll never be me_. At the time it was out of machismo; as he got older and harder, foster family after foster family, it was out of the picture for a different reason. He’d never be married, never be in a relationship, so he’d never have kids either. It seemed inevitable so he accepted it as fact, folded it into the way he saw himself and his life. When he realized he was gay the possibility of pregnancy was a bit more relevant, but the presumed end result remained the same.

But now here he is – very much not in a relationship, very much pregnant. If he did nothing about it, he would have a baby. For the first he reaches down, touches the flat planes of his stomach, tries to picture a baby swimming around in there. It’s too strange, won’t click. He can’t see it. Can’t see himself pregnant, can’t see himself with a baby, can’t see himself as a father. How could he? He’s never had a family, never knew his parents. What does he have to go on?

And where does Lance fit into this? Lance, the very famous, very rich, very unknown father. What would he say, when – _if_ – Keith tells him? What does that life look like, his kid having one famous father? Is it an alimony check, visits every other weekend? Is it pure acrimony and denial? He’d never date Keith, there’s no world where he’d give up his free-wheeling, Allura-Altea-costar life to have a baby with an emotionally stunted mechanic from southeast LA. Keith sure as fuck wouldn’t. He wouldn’t date himself if he was the last man on earth.

Looking at those facts it’s hard for Keith to find a good reason to keep this baby. The hard truths are abysmal; no partner, no money, no experience, no desire. How easy would it be to make this all go away?

He’s got a week’s worth of unanswered texts from Lance; hasn’t been able to talk to him since the doctor’s appointment. The texts are increasingly shorter, Lance sharing smaller and smaller tidbits of his life on set. Keith wouldn’t be able to talk to him again even if he kept it, but at least he could let their brief, blinding time together end without having brought an unwanted baby into Lance’s perfect movie-star life.

Keith’s heart clenches at the thought of never speaking to Lance again. He barely knows him, barely talked to him, but that night was one of the best nights of his life and his texts afterwards have been so sweet. He picks up his phone, scrolls through his texts to see what he’s missed while he was freaking out.

‘Should I steal this suit because it makes my ass look banging, yay or nay?’

‘Update: Hunk said I can’t steal costumes. Booooo.’

‘Director just called for a night shoot starting at midnight. I am preparing my best fake cough now.’

‘I like my job, I promise. I just also like sleeping in and not having to chug espresso in the morning to live.’

‘Guess you’re really busy but I hope you’re having a great day!’

God, Keith gave up all hope of _ever_ finding someone to talk to like this. But he _can’t_ , he just _can’t_ bring Lance’s whole world crashing down, can’t make him another fuck-up young celebrity dad just cause Keith’s…what, emotional? Reading old texts and missing Lance? Who he really doesn’t even know?

For the second time, he puts a hand on his belly.

If he had the baby, he’d have a little piece of Lance. He’d get to know this new person, this new combination of the two of them. Almost like a second chance with Lance.

It’s a _terrible_ fucking reason to have a baby.

Pidge’s voice echoes in his head:

_No good reason…just not a good enough reason not to._

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro texts Keith all throughout his freak-out and well into the next week. At first the texts are his usual brand of fraternal check-ups; when Keith stops responding they get teasing, then guilt-inducing, then worried. Keith finally texts back one night and Shiro makes very clear that he’s expecting Keith at dinner very shortly to prove Keith’s not dead in a ditch somewhere. For Shiro, the possibility of Keith lying dead in a ditch is always imminent.

Keith knows he needs to tell Shiro about the pregnancy but he has no clue what to say, so he ends up saying nothing at all. He lets Adam fuss at him and Shiro berate him in his ‘I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed’ way. He denies a drink on account of an ‘upset stomach’ (not untrue – the vomit session at the doctor’s office has become an unfortunate pattern). He goes home after promises to never go that long without speaking to them, lies in bed, looks at the ceiling, and prays for some angel to tell his brother he’s knocked up and spare him the humiliation. Or, even better, if they could magically skip Keith telling him and Shiro’s subsequent freak-out and judgment, just close his eyes and immediately get to the part where Shiro helps him figure out what to do and doesn’t ask questions about the father.

The next day he goes back over to Pidge’s. The moving boxes have procreated, gathering like dust bunnies in the corners of the room as more and more of her apartment gets packed away.

“Are you parents helping you move?” He asks over Zelda and take-away Chinese.

“Yeah,” she replies, which makes sense. According to the pamphlets, neither of them are supposed to lift anything heavy at a certain point. He’s sure they’re not there yet – he thinks it’s when they’re like _pregnant_ -pregnant instead of sorta-kinda pregnant – but it’s probably not good for them anyway.

“Do they know?”

“Of course, that’s why I’m moving, remember?”

Stupid question. “Yeah, that’s right.” He pauses as Link starts taking out water spirits. “What did they say?”

She pauses, takes a well-timed bite of sweet and sour tofu. She’s thinking over her words, which is rare for her. Keith plays the game while staying completely attuned to her words.

“They’re worried,” she finally says. “About it. They don’t think I’ll be able to keep up with school and my job and everything. They were pretty surprised when I said I wanted to keep it. I don’t think they agree with the decision.”

“But they’re…supportive?” 

“Yeah,” she says, pulling the blanket closer around her. “Yeah, they’re great. Never said anything bad, at least not to my face. They’re helping me with the rent for the new place, helping me move, dealing with all the shit. I think they’re getting pretty excited for a grandkid.”

She smiles then, soft and pretty, eyes like warm embers in her young face. It almost brings him peace, looking at her.

“What about you? Do your parents know?”

That little peace evaporates.

“No,” he says. “I mean. I don’t have parents. I have a foster brother. He doesn’t know. So it’s a no on both ends.”

Pidge seems terrified by his awkward explanation, but to her credit just says, “So are you gonna tell him?” with slightly wide eyes.

“I mean, I have to, right? If I keep it. I don’t if it’s the other option.”

“Have you made a decision?”

“You keep asking me that.”

“I’m just curious,” she says defensively.

“Be less curious.”

“Hey, you don’t need to be mad at me. I’m just trying to make conversation. You don’t want to talk about it, fine, but you do have to make a decision at some point, you know that right?”

“Not for a while!”

“You’re ten weeks already,” she fires back. “In California the last date for an abortion is 24 weeks, and you should not be waiting that long because it will be a much more expensive and intensive procedure. Realistically you have a month, tops, to abort. If you’re keeping it you should be on vitamins and seeing your doctor and making plans and actually _preparing_ for a baby. It’s not gonna _go away_ if you ignore it, I’m not sure if you know that!”

Keith sits, stunned and enraged at her words, the furious adrenaline in him making him want to smash one of her stupid potted plants. She doesn’t back down, glares at him with her fierce brown eyes, doesn’t look away like the kids did in middle school when he got heated.

“I know that,” he grits out.

“So tell your fucking foster brother.” Her words are bullets on sheet metal.

Defensiveness is his only recourse from shame and embarrassment, so he leans into it. “I will.”

“Good.” She pauses, as if unsure where to go from there. “Wanna keep playing Zelda?”

He snorts, and she shoots him another look. He holds his hands up.

“Let’s play.”

They pick up the long-forgotten game and go back to killing monsters.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t tell Shiro. Not yet, at least. He wants to have something to tell him, doesn’t want to watch his brother try to fix his mistake.

Pidge’s statement that he’s ten weeks took him completely by surprise, which is fucking dumb. What did he think about happen in the two weeks since he found out? His life would go on but the tadpole would stay tiny, graciously not growing until he figured out if he was gonna kill it or not?

He starts getting practical, cracks open his dusty employee handbook. His paid paternal leave is pretty abysmal, only two weeks, but he’s got several months of sick leave built up from never calling out sick. There’s co-pay on most prenatal and postnatal care, including the hospital charges (and oh, Keith had forgotten about the _giving birth_ part of this – that if he keeps it, it’ll have to _come out_ of him, like a parasite), but they’re not too bad. He wasn’t optimistic that the garage would have any prenatal care at all.

His salary is decent for just him; factoring in a kid, it gets much tighter. A quick search around Google says that the average cost per year to raise a kid is $13,000. The number makes him dizzy, makes his vision tunnel, and for a moment he wonders if he’s having a panic attack. $13,000 dollars. What the fuck, who could ever afford a kid?

(Another monetary value flashes in his head uninvited: _$75 million_. He crushes it like a mosquito.)

He also realizes what Pidge was thinking when she said she had to move. His industrial, one-bedroom apartment doesn’t leave a lot of room for a baby. Unless he sticks a crib in his room and sleeps on the couch, which sounds miserable, he will have to move.

He thinks about the other option, does another Google search. If he aborts in the next two weeks, the most he’ll pay is $1,500 (his insurance doesn’t cover it). After the first trimester, it jumps up to $3,000. But still. $3,000 versus $13,000. The choice should be clear.

Instead, Keith sits down and boosts up Netflix. They’ve now uploaded all seasons of ‘Garrison Varsity.’ Never let it be said that Keith’s not a masochist.

He never watched enough of this as a kid to have any clear remembrance of the plot, but he thinks its achingly boring before Lance arrives halfway through the season. His portrayal of tough-talking transfer student Marco is belied by his chubby cheeks and Keith’s insider knowledge that one time Lance got yelled at by his mother by spending half of his second-ever paycheck on an ASPCA campaign he saw on TV. He sits, lonely and nauseous and tender-hearted, watching the father of his child brawl and kiss and tangle in some fake melodramatic high school where every person is beautiful and every day is pristine, and he wants and wants and wants things that at this moment seem far enough away to only be possible in another universe.

That pudgy teenager on screen hasn’t texted Keith in three days. He lasted longer than Keith ever expected in the face of total silence, doggedly sending daily updates and sassy memes and, one time, a sweaty selfie in his tuxedo, with disheveled hair and dirt smudged on his cheeks and tired, bright eyes. Keith almost caved on that one, hating himself for ghosting on this poor kid, dragging him along like this. But it’s been too long. Keith can’t text him back at this point, no matter what he chooses. You can’t go two weeks of dead silence and then come back and expect a happy reception. Especially if Keith tells about the pregnancy. Lance should’ve been his first call, and instead he cut off contact for two weeks. Keith’s going to have to live with that decision now. He made that bed and he’ll have to lie in it.

He still doesn’t feel pregnant, which is a blessing and a curse. He forgets. He goes whole hours without thinking about it. Until now, when the smell of the garlic in his pasta makes him stomach turn. Then he eats plain rice and some old ice cream he finds stuffed in the back of his freeze (probably Adam’s doing) and goes to bed still feeling one bad minute away from vomiting.

Keith doesn’t end up ‘making’ a decision. There’s no great choice, no moment of firm-hearted conviction. There’s only the moment between waking and sleeping, when he thinks that there are a hundred reasons to end it, and there have been a hundred reasons since the beginning. And if none of those were good enough the first day he found out, they’re never going to be good enough.

He wakes up, face buried in the pillow, heart thumping softly in his ears, the great unknown before him, and thinks,

_Okay, then._

 

* * *

 

 

He texts Pidge an apology and an offer to buy pizza that night. She accepts, apologizes early for the lack of anything in her apartment. Almost everything’s in boxes except for the furniture and bare essentials. Moving day is this weekend.

“Do you want help?” Keith offers. “Could get my brother to come.”

“No, we should be fine. My brother’s friends are all nerds, but two computer nerds equals the strength of one regular man, so with five nerds we should be good.”

Keith laughs.

“Besides, thought you had other, more important things to discuss with your brother besides my living situation,” she says, faux casually. Keith rolls his eyes. This stubborn little twit.

“I’m having dinner with him on Thursday,” he says. “To tell him.”

“And what news are you going to deliver?” Her voice is very light.

“That in 29 weeks I’m having a baby.” Keith’s voice stays impressively even. He wonders how long that’s going to last.

Pidge’s face slowly breaks out into a massive, sunny smile. “I don’t know why I’m so happy,” she admits, flustered. “I feel like I shouldn’t be? I’m just so happy I won’t be alone, you know.”

“I do,” he says. Going through this with Pidge – his first real friend in, shit, years – is one of the few things he's looking forward to in this situation.

Quick, like she can’t second-guess herself, Pidge leans over across the couch and hugs Keith across the middle. He jerks, initially sensitive to the touch on his stomach, and then relaxes, wrapping his arms around her bony shoulders and burying his face in her hair. She smells clean, fresh, no perfume on her. He feels like he’s holding a newborn bird.

“Pidgeon,” he says stupidly, and feels her smile against his ribs.

“Keither,” she replies.

“That’s not a bird. I’d be an eagle.”

She snorts. “Okay, edgelord.”

“What? I’d totally be an eagle.”

“Hawk is the most I’ll give you. You’re too skinny to be an eagle.”

“I can live with hawk,” he admits begrudgingly. “Cooler than a pigeon.”

“Pigeons are doves. Prince never sang about the hawks crying.”

“Touché. You’re more emo than me, got it.”

“ _Hey_ – “

 

* * *

 

 

Keith brings a bottle of wine to Adam and Shiro’s that week, as a diversionary tactic. At first this seems like a brilliant idea, as Adam gets very smiley and Shiro compliments Keith’s manners (he’s normally late, bringing nothing, wearing a sweaty t-shirt). But then Adam pours him a glass of the dark red and Keith has to come up with a good reason to not drink the wine he bought. Shit.

“I’m not drinking, actually,” he says.

“Really?” Adam says, taking a sip of wine. “Why not?”

Shit, Keith really wanted to do this during dinner, at the small, homey table with the patterned china and Air Force-themed décor, when everyone’s eaten and broken the ice. He doesn’t want to do this here, in the lemon-scented kitchen with too-bright lights. But it’s been too long, and now Adam and Shiro are staring at him in mild alarm.

No way out but through.

“I’m actually pregnant,” Keith says.

The clock ticks once. Twice. Three times.

“What?” Adam says. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Keith can’t make eye contact. He’s fixed his eyeline on the framed pictures of Shiro and Adam in dress blues on the wall. He can feel his face burn with shame.

“You – pregnant?” Shiro says, voice baffled. Keith makes quick eye contact, sees them both staring at him like he’s just told them he’s actually a time-travelling alien. He squeezes his eyes shut. Oh, he hates this.

“Yep,” he says, a tremor in his voice.

“I don’t understand,” Adam says. “ _Pregnant_? What…I didn’t know that was…you’ve never, ever said you wanted…”

“Who’s the father?” Shiro says. “That boy you were texting?”

Keith can’t think of a lie. He nods.

“Did you plan this?”

“Of course not. We just…didn’t think.”

“What does he think about it?”

Keith feels like crying. He gets the overwhelming urge to touch his stomach, but fights it down because he doesn’t think he could stand their faces if he did that.

“He doesn’t want to be involved,” he says.

“What? Why not? What did he – “

“It was a one-night stand, Shiro,” Keith snaps, ashamed of the tears in his voice. “We were stupid and I got pregnant and he doesn’t want it so I’m just gonna do it. That’s all it is. There’s no…abuse, he’s not a dick, you don’t need to get all overprotective, we were just…dumb. I was dumb. And that’s all there is.”

“That’s all there is? Keith, it’s a _baby_ , you’re going to be a _father_ , is this really something to be so blasé about?”

“I’m not blasé! I’ve thought about it and I checked my insurance and I’ve got savings and I’ll make it work.”

The oven dings, and Keith almost laughs hysterically even though it’s not funny at all. They all stand suspended for a moment, and then Adam turns to pull on oven mitts. Keith finally looks Shiro in the eyes, sees a very different face than before.

“You’ve thought about it?” He says. “You’ve really looked at all your options?”

Keith nods. He hates that they’re both still standing. It makes him feel like a misbehaving kid. Shiro walks over, puts a hand on his shoulder. Keith looks up at him, the concern on his face and the cool grip of his metal prosthetic.

“Are you sure?” He asks quietly, giving them a degree of privacy. “You’ve really thought about it and this is the right choice for you? You’ll get no judgment from us. This is a very hard thing to do.”

Keith blinks, and it dislodges the tears building on his eyelashes. He scrubs them away. “I’m sure,” he whispers. “I want to.”

Shiro looks at him for another moment and then pulls him in for a gripping hug. Keith buries his face in Shiro’s shirt, lets his tears dampen the fabric.

“I got you,” Shiro says. “I’m here.”

_I knew you would be_ , Keith thinks, feeling finally free. They know, they’re still here. He can start to move forward.

They pull apart, both a little misty-eyed, to find Adam standing by the chicken with a brave, wide-eyed smile. “So,” he says, too brightly, “when’s the baby due?”

“Uh, May,” Keith says. He thinks. He needs to go back to the doctor. “I’m ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks,” Shiro repeats. “It’s…40 weeks? How many?”

“40, yeah. Assuming everything goes okay?”

“A baby,” Shiro says. “You’re gonna have a baby.”

Keith gives a weird smile. “That’s what they tell me.”

“What did you think he was having, Takashi?” Adam says, amused. “A tiny motorcycle? A little leather jacket? A potato? What else would it be but a baby?”

“It was just sinking in,” Shiro defends. “I know it’s gonna be a baby!”

“I hope it’s not a motorcycle,” Keith says. “That sounds really painful to give birth to a Harley.”

Adam and Shiro both burst out laughing and Keith smiles, something warm and soothing filling his chest, like chai tea on a cold day. That was the first joke he’d made about it. This was something you could joke about. Unplanned pregnancy could be funny. Didn’t have to be the worst thing to ever happen to him.

_I’m gonna be okay_ , he thinks, for the first time. _After this. I’m going to live, and be fine. It’s not the end of the world._

Adam starts plating the chicken, while Shiro pulls out wine glasses and starts talking about his day at command. The cars on the street flash headlights through the curtains on the windows. Framed on the mantle is a picture of Shiro and Keith at Keith’s graduation, Shiro only with one arm slung proudly over Keith’s shoulders. Chatter behind him, the clink of silverware. The sounds of a home. Keith turns slightly away, sneaks a warm hand under his shirt to linger on his belly.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears! Just so you know, the end of this chapter contains a pretty intense discussion of an off-screen rape. Please take care of yourselves and skip if you need to!

Pidge moves into her new place on a Saturday and begs for a week to unpack and settle in before they hang out. Keith goes online to look for a good housewarming gift idea, but half of them involve alcohol and half of them are so unbearably girly Pidge might vomit upon sight. He ends up getting an expensive tea sampler at the mall because it looks nice and he thinks he saw Pidge drinking tea one time. Sue him, he’s bad at gifts.

Her new place isn’t far from her old one, but it’s a much more pedestrian apartment building, with no dedicated motorcycle parking so Keith has to take up a whole car spot. He swings off his motorcycle and heads to the ground-floor apartment number she texted him. He’s starving; his stomach was acting up at work and he couldn’t eat his lunch, spent most of it breathing deep and trying not to vomit. He needs pizza, stat.

Pidge looks exhausted when she opens the door, big bags under her brown eyes, body huddled in wrinkled loungewear and thick says. “Hi,” she says, and immediately goes in for a hug.

“Are you okay?” He asks, because this isn’t normal for either of them.

She takes a second to answer, where he just awkwardly holds her shoulders and delivers a few stilted pats to her fluffy hair. “I’m glad to see you,” she finally says. “Turns out I’m not as good at change as I thought.”

“This is a lot of change. No one could be good at this.”

“Lots of people are.”

“Lots of people aren’t. Dude, come on, what’s up?”

“Nothing.” She pulls back, pushes her glasses up to rub at her eyes. The smile she gives him after is wobbly. “I’m good. Ready for Zelda?”

He scrutinizes for a minute and then decides to let her get away with it. She doesn’t push him, after all. “Got you something.” He pushes the tea box at her. It’s not even wrapped. Shit, he’s bad at this.

She turns it over in her hands. “Tea?”

“For, like. Housewarming.”

“Awww,” she instantly coos. “Keither got me a _present_ cause he _loves_ me.”

“I don’t love you. I hate you. You’re a gremlin.”

“I think you meant to say ‘genius,’” she says, turning the box over to read the different types of tea. “Is any of this – “

“All decaf,” he replies. “I checked.”

“Look at you,” she says with a grin. “Such a good preggo.”

“Never call me that again. Ever.”

“Preggo my Eggo.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

She cackles, heading over to put the tea inside the kitchen. Keith follows, eyes sweeping to take in the new apartment. It already feels smaller than the old one, without the massive ceilings and lofted bedroom, even though he knows logically this one is bigger. The living room has a sweet little window that opens out onto the street, already lined with potted plants. The kitchen is mostly a storage area for still-unpacked boxes, and the only things that are really set up are the TV and computers – even the couch is still in pieces. Keith wanders without asking permission, passing a hallway bathroom and closet, turning to look at the master bedroom with its explosion of bedsheets and boxes and bookshelves. The last room is weirdly empty, and it takes Keith a minute to place it.

_The nursery_ , he thinks, his stomach growing warm.

Pidge comes up from behind him. “Haven’t really decorated it yet. Still getting stuff. I need to go online, order a whole ton of shit.”

Keith nods. He spent some time last night, trying to figure out what all he needs to buy. It’s daunting.

She leans again the door, looks in with guarded eyes. She’s fourteen weeks, Keith knows, into the second trimester now, but if she looks any different its totally swallowed up by her massive hoodie. Keith is weirdly curious to see if she’s showing. She’s like his prophecy, doing everything two weeks ahead of him, like a little vision of what’s going to happen to him. He wants to know what’s coming next, what to expect.

“Hey,” he says, suddenly gripped by an urge to share. She turns, and he reaches into his pocket to pull out the crumpled picture he’s kept tucked in his pants pocket.

Pidge’s whole face softens as she takes hold of the picture. “There’s the peanut,” she says.

“Yep,” Keith says, leaning over to look at the blurry ultrasound. He hadn’t expected it to look so much like a baby yet, but it does – the plump little belly, froggy legs, big alien head. When the tech had the goo on his belly and they were watching it live, the baby kicked. Keith looked down, couldn’t feel or see the thing from the outside. The picture makes it easier to believe something’s in there, but Keith still can’t see the proof.

“You’re is bigger than mine was,” Pidge says, spreading her fingers to measure. “Mine was only just over two inches. Yours looks like almost two and a half.”

“I’m bigger than you,” Keith says. The dad’s pretty tall too, he thinks.

Pidge smiles, looks down at it fondly. “All healthy?”

“Yep.”

“I’ve got my ultrasound in the bathroom,” she says. “I don’t want it out in the open but I still like looking at it sometimes, you know? I get another one in two weeks, see how big it is then.”

“You get to find out the sex at that appointment, right? The 16-week one?”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Gender is a social construct and I have no desire whatsoever to find out the sex of my unborn fetus which can then be used to determine their worth and role in society for the rest of their lives. Plus, they might not identify with their assigned gender at birth. So _I_ will not be finding out the sex, thank you very much.”

Keith tries very hard to come up with an adequate response. He goes with “Noted”, which is really the most that Pidge could expect.

She rolls her eyes. “Men. I’ll enlighten you by the end of this, don’t worry.”

“I hope your baby _loves_ gender roles,” he replies.

She gasps, puts a hand to her chest. “Don’t you wish that evil upon me!”

“I hope your baby hates video games.”

She smacks him in the arm.

“I am in _delicate condition_ , how dare you. I could sue. Or I could – “

He scoops her up in his arms – she’s as light as he expects – and carries her, shrieking with laughter, all the way around to deposit her on the bed. Neither of them can stop laughing for minutes on end.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sendak, I need to talk to you.”

Sendak turns away from his conversation to look down at Keith. The other guys behind him raise eyebrows and chuckle.

“Now?” Sendak drawls.

“If you can, yeah.” Keith stands his ground even though he’s the shortest guy in the garage by a good half a foot. Sendak gives a twitching smile, gestures for Keith to follow him as they trek back through the garage.

Sendak is the boss and owner of Galra Garage. Keith has never had any misconceptions that he’s anything but a massive jackass. Most of the other guys in the garage – Prorok, Morvok, Ranveig – are all Sendak’s childhood buddies, who get by on nepotism and barely do a third of the work Keith does. He’s only here because it pays well and he’s indispensable – none of them know bikes like Keith does, and he’s the ringer, brought in to fix problems no one else can figure out. He’s gained, over the years, a good amount of grudging respect.

That’s all about to change.

“If this is about that bitch with the Blackhawk, I’ve already told Prorok to back off so you can do her precious bike yourself.” He walks into his shitty little office, throwing away empty plastic pickle wrappers and motioning or Keith to sit in the single chair. Keith doesn’t. He’d rather stand for this; makes him feel like he’s a soldier, ready for battle.

“She’s not a bitch, she likes her bike a certain way and I respect that,” Keith says. “And it’s not about that.”

When he went to button his jeans this morning, there was an inch gap between the button and the flap that stubbornly refused to close. And Keith can’t suck anything in. Turns out the subtle curve between his hips isn’t bloat like he thought, but the beginnings of an actual bump. He’s showing. And it’s only a matter of time before his baggy work jumpsuit can’t hide it anymore. He knows how the guys gossip like old maids, knows they’ll be running to hiss at Sendak about how “Keith’s looking a little pudgy, isn’t he?” And he just…he wants to be the one telling his boss. And it’s going to be easier to say before he starts showing, when the physical manifestation of his mistakes isn’t out in the open, making it much harder for them to treat him normally. It’s gotta be now.

“I’m letting you know that in July I’ll need to go on paternity leave,” he says.

“Paternity leave?” Sendak repeats. “What, like you knocked somebody up?”

“No.” Shit, fuck, Keith doesn’t want to say this, doesn’t want to lose the respect he’s spent years building. “I’m knocked up.”

Sendak gapes at him for a solid thirty seconds while Keith wants to shed his skin and disappear into the ground. It’s taking everything in him to keep his chin up, look Sendak in the eyes. Like watching a blue sky morph into a coming storm, Sendak’s expression morphs from stunned to weirdly gleeful. “You’re joking,” he says, in his low growl. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yep.” Keith pops the p.

“You got a nice boyfriend at home?”

Keith’s stomach curdles like bad milk. “That’s none of your business. I’m just letting you know I’m taking paternity leave, I’m going to take sick days before that for doctor’s appointments.”

“Are you still going to be able to work? Can someone in your _condition_ really be a mechanic?”

“We’ll find out,” Keith says, with more bravado than he feels. “But you can’t fire me for being pregnant, that’s discrimination and I’ve got grounds to sue.”

“I’d never fire you,” Sendak says with a toothy smile. “We’re a family here, and I want you to feel supported and care for during this exciting time. Congratulations, by the way!”

Keith’s only been congratulated for the pregnancy twice – once by Pidge, with knowing commiseration, and once now, with condescension. They’re likely the only two congrats he’s going to get.

“Thanks,” he replies dryly. “Also, just so you know, my medical status is protected information, so you can’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not planning on telling anyone. Eventually they’ll have all the information they need.” He scrapes his yellow eyes up and down Keith’s body, making him want to squirm and run away.

“Alright, bye,” he says, and beats a hasty retreat. Everyone stares at him as he hustles across the garage back to his work station but Keith keeps his head ducked even as their eyes burn on the back of his neck. They’re all wondering what’s happening, why Keith’s meeting with the boss like a kid sent to the principal’s office. He doesn’t believe Sendak won’t tell, not for a damn minute, but he won’t be able to prove anything. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll have nothing left to hide behind, his shame resting just underneath his shirt for everyone to see and judge.

It’s gonna be a long six months.

 

* * *

 

 

_Why does every piece of clothing for pregnant people make me want to vomit?_ Keith texts Pidge one night. He exes out of the Target website with its pink t-shirt reading ‘Angel Baby’. Gender-neutral, my ass.

_Because we live in a patriarchal society with antiquated notions about child-bearing_ , she texts back, which is standard. _Sweatpants 4eva,_ reads the next text, with 8 pants emojis.

Keith snorts, puts a palm on the pooch of his belly underneath his t-shirt. _Fight the man_ , he texts back, with a carefully selected muscle emoji. Pidge is fluent in emoji, crafts whole sentences from them like hieroglyphs. Keith is slowly starting to understand their different meanings, that sometimes an eggplant doesn’t actually mean an eggplant.

Lance was an emoji fan too, used them in almost every text, the most ridiculous additions. Keith pushes that thought firmly away, shoves it down like pushing clothes in an overstuffed suitcase.

_How’s the apartment search going?_ She texts next.

_LA real estate sucks_ , he replies. Shiro agreed vehemently when Kith told him he should probably move, and they’ve both been on Zillow and apartments.com and every other housing website trying to find something with two rooms in LA that’s within his meager budget. It’s not pretty.

_Getting cockblocked by the establishment_ , Pidge texts, with skull and fist emojis.

_You’re in a riot mood,_ he says.

_Hormones. I want to burn things._ A pause. _And eat peanut butter ice cream._

Keith smiles, even as his face flushes with guilt. His hormones are having him crave…other things. He’s been feeling off lately, too nauseous and terrified to be horny, but the appearance of his belly seems to have triggered something, and he gets hard up for _anything_. Which is really weird because he hates looking in the mirror right now, hates the tiny distortion of his belly, which is really only visible in his tightest t-shirts. Even with his stomach covered, his face is puffy and swollen and he really doesn’t want to have sex with anyone, not that he could convince his dick of that.

Last night he finally caved and had a marathon masturbation session, so full up he came three times before he was done. It started as random faceless men and recollected clips from old porn but morphed into Lance real quick; Lance sending goosebumps through his skin with every touch, Lance tugging on his hair as he fed his cock through Keith’s lips, Lance leaving bruises on Keith’s hips as he fucks him from behind, Keith’s knees pushed further up the bed with each driving thrust, Lance spreading Keith’s cheeks and leaving tender loving kisses along the curve of his ass and thighs before he licks him open. That one caused tears to gather, and Keith sobbed as he came. He found himself in the wholly pathetic position of crying on his bed, come streaked on his tiny pregnant belly, lonely and touch-starved. He sniffles, wipes the tears away with his non-come hand, sends a silent apology to the baby for getting them covered in come and for all the psychological damage this is sure to cause (he knows the baby doesn’t know, okay, but he’s sure it’s gonna fuck them up anyway, he just _knows_ ). After that he’s been more amped up to move, like he can escape the humiliating memory of that night.

(He knows there’s nothing stopping him from repeating it, however, not even his own pride. That one moment of release felt _so good_.)

_Should we have one last hang out in your crib before you move?_ Pidge texts.

_Yeah, sure_ , Keith replies, even though his chest is gripped with fear at the thought of _hosting someone._

_Probably should have invited you over before, sorry_ , he texts.

_NBD, I know how that introvert life is_ , she says with a happy emoji, and he is immensely grateful to her for the millionth time. _We can still chill at mine if you want._

_No, let’s do it. I still can’t cook though. It’s gonna be a pizza night_

_I would expect nothing less._

 

* * *

 

 

The plan backfires quickly when Pidge says five minutes into entering his apartment, “Oh my God, are you a secret Lance McClain stan?”

Keith freezes like he’s been struck by lightning. Fuuuuuck. He did everything perfectly. He vacuumed, did the dishes, straightened the bookshelves, put out a fucking candle for fuck’s sake. But he apparently forgot to hide his collected set of Lance’s movies, which are sitting in plain sight right by his TV.

Pidge looks up with unbridled glee. “You have a _boxed set_ of Lance McClain movies. What are you, a 14-year-old girl?”

“They were on sale,” Keith protests weakly. He was in Walmart for some cheap sweatpants and saw this boxed set in the bargain bin. The very notion offended him, that Lance’s movies could be put in the bargain bin (even though these movies are all at three five years old and Lance’s recent movies are doing very well) and bought it before he could think twice about it.

“Do you write love poems to his brown eyes? Do you – “

“He has blue eyes,” Keith says, and Pidge laughs so hard she can’t breathe.

Keith is regretting ever meeting Pidge. His stomach has gone hot and squirmy, the conversation far too close to topics he has no interest in discussing.

“Oh, this is amazing,” she says, pulling the DVDs to her. “I’ve never seen any of these. We should totally – “

“Not these,” Keith says abruptly. “Uh, they’re not that good. We can just play some games.”

The truth is that Allura co-stars in two out of three in that set, and he doesn’t trust his weepy, hormonal heart to handle Lance pretending to be in love with human goddess Allura Altea. He’d rather watch those alone, where at least no one else will see him cry.

“No, now I wanna watch ‘Garrison Varsity,’” Pidge decides, climbing up on the couch like a spider monkey and booting up Keith’s TV faster than he ever can. “They’ve put it all on Netflix, right? How much have you already watched, be honest.”

Almost all of it – Keith was up until two AM last night finishing the season four finale. (He cried. A lot.) “We don’t have to watch it,” he repeats.

“Oh, but we do. This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Is this a childhood love? Was Lance McClain your teenage crush? Was Lance how you found out you were gay?”

“How’d you know I was gay?”

She gestures to his stomach. Which, fair. “Plus you wear leather jackets.”

“I ride a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, but you also happen to be gay. My gaydar is impeccable, okay, gay recognizes gay.”

“Wait, _you’re_ gay?”

The conversation immediately turns awkward, silence thickening as Keith processes this new information. Pidge is _gay_? She stares at him stonily, her whole body a challenge, begging him to ask how a lesbian wound up pregnant. She’s a tiny, crouched fox, bundled up in blankets and her ever-present hoodie, but her eyes are bright and alert, lying in wait.

Keith’s curious. Keith’s _so_ fucking curious. But if he asks, she’ll have grounds to ask. And he can’t. He can’t let it spill how he knows Lance McClain has blue eyes. The embarrassment of Pidge thinking he’s a Lance McClain fangirl is still better than knowing he’s having Lance’s secret love child and didn’t tell him about it.

So all he does is nod, and Pidge deflates, shoulders melting away down her back. She gives him a soft-eyed smile, and Keith knows he did the right thing.

“I like ‘Garrison Varsity,’” he relents, and Pidge beams.

“Me too, I think. I haven’t seen it in years. I watched it with my brother when I was in middle school. Is it just as dramatic as I remember?”

“Worse,” Keith confirms, and Pidge makes a fist and hisses, “Yessss.”

They start from the beginning, which Keith just finished watching, and make it almost through to the mid-season brawl where Lance appears by the time they finish the Thai food Keith ordered. Pidge keeps up a running commentary on the show, mostly their terrible ‘teenage’ costumes of super tight jeans and ripped shirts, while Keith agrees and tries not to die from awkwardness. One of the first storylines involves a teenage pregnancy, and even though Lance’s character hasn’t even been introduced yet, it’s still way too close to home. He keeps seeing himself, bizarrely, in the show, being the subject of dialogue like, “Did you hear? She’ll probably have to drop out” and “So young, God, who raised her? Didn’t know how to wrap it up?” Pidge gets quieter too, hiding deeper in her blankets, and when the episode is over she presses pause before Netflix can automatically keep playing.

“Maybe we’ll skip this part and go to the bits where Lance arrives,” she says softly.

“That sounds good,” Keith replies. The sun’s set, only light in the room coming from the TV and the candle on the bookshelf. Keith rubs his eyes, stretches until he hears several satisfying cracks. The new weight is starting to get to him; he’s more tired in the mornings, taking longer to get out of bed. And he’s barely showing. It’s going to get so much worse; they’re going to have to use a forklift to get him out of bed.

“It’s clear out there,” Pidge says, looking out the window. “It’s been so cloudy this week.”

“This is my favorite time to ride,” Keith says. “A cloudless night. Sunrise is amazing too.”

“I’ve never ridden a motorcycle,” Pidge muses.

“ _What?_ Never?”

“It’s not a thing normal suburban girls do, you idiot,” she says with a grin. “My mom drives a minivan and my brother was in Boy Scouts. We weren’t really the motorcycle type.”

Keith gets it, but only in the detached, intellectual way that the understands people have different lives than him. He doesn’t _really_ get it, because motorcycles have been his passion since he first had a foster brother that rode one. The raw power of it entranced him in a way cars never did; he wanted to feel it move under him, wanted to be directly in charge, personally riding that bull. He has a driver’s license but he feels too removed in a car, like he’s hovering above and it could spin out of control at any time because he’s not sitting right on the engine. He wanted a motorcycle at the age of twelve; when he got his first one at eighteen, he felt, for the first time, like he could actually fly.

“I could take you,” he finds himself saying. “We could ride. If you want.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah, why not?”

Pidge’s face is caught in between grinning and disbelief. “Like, just ride a motorcycle?”

“Yeah, just ride. We probably won’t be able to for much longer.”

“Yeah,” Pidge says, like she forgot. She burrows her hands under the blankets and Keith wonders if she’s touching her stomach. “Is it safe?”

“It can be dangerous, I can’t lie about that. It’s risky. But I’m a really good driver. I’ve never gotten in an accident and we won’t go too fast.”

“Let’s do it,” Pidge says, mind made up just like that. She throws the blanket off like a dramatic movie star and Keith laughs.

“It’s gonna be cold,” he warns. “Wind chill can get bad. I can give you my old jacket.”

“ _Fuck_ yeah.” She’s rubbing her hands together like an evil genius. Currently her outfit consists of a hoodie with a green alien on the front, baggy UCLA sweatpants bunched at the ankle, and scuffed brown UGG boots that look at least ten years old. Definitely the aesthetic of a hardcore bike rider.

Keith goes in his closet for his old high school leather jacket, which he wore daily until his shoulders got too broad for it. He bought it himself with money from his old part-time job at the hardware shop; it’s red and white and cropped, super tacky to his modern eyes but God he _loved_ it. When he brings it out Pidge’s eyes light up.

“Oh _man_ , I am learning so much about you tonight. What a horrible, badass jacket.”

“That’s accurate,” he says, handing it to her. His smile is slipping as he remembers that the last person he rode double with was Lance, the very night they conceived the baby.

“Don’t put your hands up,” he tells her, trying to claw back the memories. “It’s dangerous. You gotta hold onto me.”

“Oooookay?” She looks at him like he’s crazy, arms halfway through the sleeves. Which is fair, considering they’re not even on the bike yet. Get a fucking grip, Keith.

They walk outside into the chill, crisp night, Keith’s motorcycle sitting in the parking lot like a splash of red paint on a background of beige cars and black sky. Pidge grins when she sees it, bouncing up and down on her feet. Keith starts the engine, goes over the rules with her. He’s thinking about routes in his head, places to go that aren’t too dangerous or fast. It’s not just for Pidge’s sake; he’s felt a little scared when he rides lately. The danger that never bothered him before is now an insistent drumbeat, a steady background of _You can’t do this, must not do this, must be careful, don’t fuck it up._

(He could’ve worn a condom. He didn’t.)

He swings his leg over and Pidge needs no encouragement before hopping on and sliding forward, a direct parallel to the last time Lance had ridden with him, sweaty bodies pressed together after the club. Only this time, the person behind him is a good foot and a half shorter, and there’s the small but insistent press of a baby bump against Keith’s back, apparent even through her layers of clothing. Keith freezes, because it’s the first time he’s even been aware that Pidge _was_ showing, and there’s a strange white fuzz filling his brain at the thought.

“Hey,” Pidge says, clearing her throat. “Come on, Keither, let’s motor.” Her voice sounds uncomfortable, like she knows exactly why Keith is quiet.

(Lance called him ‘cowboy.’)

Keith shakes out the thoughts, revs the engine. “Hold on tight.”

She laughs in delight when the engine rumbles, which is actually better than Keith reacted when he first got on a bike. Her little fingers grip tight on his jacket, and Keith feels his heart steady as he pulls the bike out of the parking lot and onto the main street. This is his home; no matter what else is going on in his life, he’ll always know where he’s at on a bike.

He pulls them onto big streets – not highways, but just big enough to let him let loose, get the blood pumping and kick the speedometer up just enough. She doesn’t scream or giggle much once they’re riding, just holds on tight and leans with him on the turns. She gets the hang of it quickly; she’d make a good racecar driver, he thinks, clearly not afraid of adrenaline. She’s not dumb, like other idiots who let go and raise their fists while riding on a motorcycle.

He takes them a little ways out of the city, until they can see the Hollywood sign up in the hills. The bike climbs and climbs, rolling easily up and down hills, the rumble of the engine loud and bold in the quiet suburban night. Keith leans in, Pidge tight and small behind him, lets the wind whip them and thinks about how good it would feel, how nice, if this bike could fly away.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s very…cozy,” Shiro says.

‘Cozy’ is one word for it. The apartment is cramped, which is not helped by the terrible way the kitchen juts out into the living room and how the only window is cut off by the back of the couch. There are two bedrooms, technically, but one has just enough room for a bed and a dresser and the other has an awful, stale smell. Keith tries his hardest to keep his frustration off his face, but this is the third apartment they’ve seen today that Keith would rather claw his eyes out than live in.

Keith turns to the landlord. “This one’s not what I’m looking for.”

“But thank you for your time,” Shiro adds. Covering up for Keith’s social faux pas, as usual. It’s like middle school all over again.

The landlord sighs in resignation. Probably hasn’t gotten anyone interested in the apartment; thought the single, broke pregnant guy would be his best bet. They step outside into the cold air and Keith shivers, zips his jacket up.

It takes some maneuvering and careful force to get the zipper to go. Keith’s cursing his penchant for tight-fitting clothes; his belly, which used to hide easily under his clothes, now juts out, poking itself through every tight t-shirt and fitted leather jacket.

Shiro puts a hand on his back as they walk towards his trunk. “I know this is discouraging,” he says. “But you’re handling it very well.”

“You mean I haven’t cried or punched anything?” Keith smiles weakly.

“Yes, exactly,” Shiro says, and it forces a choked laugh out of Keith. “You know, the offer still stands for you to come live with Adam and I.”

“That’s a short-term solution. What about after, the baby and I are gonna live in your guest room?”

“We’d made it work.” Shiro really believes it, his voice full of conviction.

Keith shakes his head. “No. I mean, thank you, it’s very nice, but I gotta take care of this. Stand on my own.”

He has to jump a little and huff to get up into Shiro’s truck. Which is definitely the kind of humiliating thing Keith wants to happen after he’s just proclaimed he can stand on his own.

Shiro boots the car up, looks over at Keith like he thinks Keith’s gonna cry. Like he’s something breakable. “Just one more, right? Or do you just want to go home? We can come back, reschedule the viewing.”

“No, it’s okay. I can do one more.” He rubs his hands in front of the heater. “But after this, I’m ordering pizza.”

Shiro laughs, big and loud.

The last apartment Keith’s got lined up for today is further east, closer to the shop than his current place. It takes them a while to find it; they realize only after they’ve been driving around for ten minutes that the ‘B’ in ‘450B’ means basement, and they find a tiny little door tucked around back of the townhouse. It’s very east coast, like apartments Keith sees on ‘Friends’ and nothing like most LA places.

Shiro makes a face, and Keith has to agree. It doesn’t look good.

The landlord is a little Hispanic guy who smiles widely when Keith and Shiro come in. He assures then that everyone has trouble finding the place, chatting easily with Shiro while he unlocks the door, which is wrought iron scrollwork. There’s a small patio-like landing before the stairs down to the apartment; it’s actually the perfect place for a bike.

“And here we go,” he says, opening the door and gesturing Keith and Shiro inside. “Now, it is underground, so it generally stays cooler in the summer, though it can be a bit chilly in the winter…”

Keith walks inside, standing in the living room and looking around. It’s the weirdest little apartment he’s ever seen; the only windows in the main room are little, rectangular ones high up on the wall, almost to the ceiling. It’s not as dark as he expected, though; the light from the tiny windows is soft, filtered, giving it the air of a warm den. The living room opens right up to the small kitchen; off to the side is a linen closet and small bathroom.

“Here’s the first bedroom,” the landlord says, opening a door. “Laundry’s through here, opens out onto an alley…”

The ‘bedroom’ has no windows whatsoever; it’s clearly meant to be storage, as it has a massive closet on the wall with one section for hanging clothes and a whole bunch of shelves. It’s narrow, not much room for anything besides a bed. Keith pokes through it, looks out into the adjoining laundry room, unfinished with old linoleum on the floor and a rickety shelf above the washer and dryer. He catches a glimpse of Shiro’s face as they walk back into the living room; to anyone else he would look perfectly polite, but Keith can tell he’s not impressed.

“And here’s the other bedroom! A bit more fun here, look at the view – “

The ‘view’ out of the full window is gray slate; it clearly is a window to the bottom of the house next door. But it is an actual, normal-sized window, and the bedroom is nicely-sized, not narrow like the other one. There’s a small closet, with carpet on the floor that’s a bit dingy but still soft. Something flickers deep inside Keith’s belly; not a kick, more like a flutter. The brushing of a butterfly’s wings.

He tries to see it, tries to superimpose a new image like he’s got 3D glasses; a crib, tucked in the corner, dark wood and soft blankets. Tiny clothes in the dresser. A mobile with little animals on the ceiling. A rocking chair under the window. Keith, sitting in it, middle of the night, holding something pink and squirmy and warm. His throat catches.

Yeah. This could work.

The landlord excuses himself to make a call. Shiro smiles at him and then turns back to Keith.

“Seems a bit dark,” he says. “It’s very weird.”

Keith eases a hand down, slowly rubs at his stomach underneath his shirt. The curve of it doesn’t freak him out like it normally does; it makes him feel calm, settled. This place only costs a bit more than his current one. It’s got a washer and dryer and a place to park his motorcycle. It’s got a shitty little bedroom for him and a nursery for the baby.

He can make this work. He will make this work.

“I don’t know,” he says. His stomach flutters and he smiles. “I think dark and weird kinda works for me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lance is an optimist, even when he has no reason to be. When the chips are down and everything’s starting to go south, he’s normally the last one to fold. He genuinely believes the good things are more likely to happen than bad things.

He came into this meeting with that attitude. Even when he had no reason in the world to believe this would be any different than every other meeting before.

“We just don’t think it’s the right choice for you right now,” says some smarmy, slimy guy from the movie studio.

“Shouldn’t I decide that?” Lance says. “It’s my coming out, it’s my choice. What do your thoughts have to do with it?”

The movie studio guy looks at someone on Lance’s handler team. All of them in suits in this conference room, sun shining through the windows, gorgeous Atlanta skyline beyond them.

Lance wants to punch everyone in this room in the face. And then break the glass windows while he’s at it.

“Look, Mr. McClain,” someone says. It’s someone from PR, he thinks. “The press isn’t right, at the moment. The timing is bad. You’ve got this movie coming out with Miss Altea, we really want to capitalize on that, it’s a big sell – “

“I’m not even romantically involved with Allura in this one!” Lance protests, fidgeting in his suit. Beside him, Hunk leans forward, game face on. “We’re not a couple in this movie at all. And you’ve said the same thing before my last three movies. ‘We have to monetize this – ‘”

“The fans don’t know you’re not romantically involved with Miss Altea,” Someone butts in. “We won’t be making that a point in the marketing.”

Lance turns to Hunk, finds his face just as shocked. He had no idea they were gonna pretend Lance and Allura were together in marketing, lie to the fans like that.

“Besides, even if it wasn’t for this film, we have to keep the trajectory of your career in mind. You really have the market down on romances, rom-coms, sexy thrillers. Coming out as gay could really – “

“I’m not gay!”

The force of his outburst silences the room, all the suits and sycophants shocked into silence as Lance looks around, eyes wide and threatening to spill tears of anger and frustration.

“I’m bisexual,” he says, disbelief dripping from his voice. He feels like he could shake out of his skin. “Which means I like guys _and_ girls. I don’t know how you missed that, at all, in the 21st century. So you don’t have to worry about my…romantic appeal to women, or whatever you’re worried about. Like…do you guys even know what I’m fighting for? I’ve been asking for this for, for _years_ and you don’t even know what I’m _asking_ for?”

He could cry. He could scream. It takes everything in him to not crush this stupid conference table with fucking stupid crystal glasses and decanters of sparkling water.

“Look,” Hunk says, and his voice is quiet and firm. “We did the market research. You can see the figures in your folders. Increasingly, the teenage demographic – Mr. McClain’s demographic – are extremely supportive of LGBT performers and identities, including supporting gay adoption and marriage rights. They are not their parents’ generation – your generation, if I may – and without making someone’s identity into a commodity, gay rights are _trendy_. Regardless of Mr. McClain’s personal life, which is apparently not enough of a reason for you, we have a real opportunity here to make a _statement_. Coming out on his own terms, with the PR outline we’ve discussed, would turn this from the disaster you’re painting it as to a really exciting moment. You guys are really not seeing the opportunities here. We could be groundbreakers, coming out at the peak of his career, giving young queer kids someone to look up to and really idolize. Plus,” Hunk’s on a roll now, pulling out other papers from his briefcase, “we’re not looking at this in business terms, but the queer market is really growing. ‘Blue is the Warmest Color’ was a sleeper hit, ‘Danish Girl’ got Eddie Redmayne an Oscar nod. There is a really booming market here, and Mr. McClain could really thrive. His acting experience, the authenticity of the role being played by a queer actor…this could open up a whole new market, this could be the career-maker we’re all looking for."

Lance nods, forces a smile as some of the execs nod and look interestingly at Hunk’s carefully prepared graphs. He hates, _hates_ when they make his sexuality into a commodity, hates feeling like his feelings could make money. The only thing that keeps his mouth shut is the knowledge that _this_ is the shit that might actually change their mind, and that Hunk is just doing his job as a manager. He thinks Lance shouldn’t need any reason to come out other than wanting to, but he’s in the business and he knows sometimes you have to play the game.

His hours of market research look like they’re working, as all of the suits start muttering to themselves and pointing to the graphs. Lance feels a tiny flicker of hope, maybe the light at the end of the tunnel. But there’s one person at the table who’s still looking just as hard as before. His name is Iverson; he’s a scary ex-military fuck with an eye patch. How he came to be the head of a celebrity management company, Lance has no idea. But he has this way of staring at Lance with his one eye that makes him feel like a poor, dorky, unpopular kid from the shit side of Los Angeles, all over again.

“Mr. McClain,” he says, and Lance fucking _knows_ what’s coming next. “Mr. Garrett. We understand where you’re coming from. But the truth is this is still a new career. You don’t have the fanbase you need to handle this kind of…disruption. Plus it would be foolish to give up your role as a romantic hero. It’s a cash cow.”

“But,” Lance says desperately, “think of the new markets – “

“I don’t want you thinking about new markets,” Iverson says, blunt as a hammer. “Rom-coms are your wheelhouse. That’s what you’re good at, that’s what you’ll always be good at. Stop trying to think about ‘breaking in’ and take this incredible career for what it is. It’s a miracle you’ve even got this much.”

Hunk’s face is broken open.

Lance glares at Iverson, willing his lip not to quiver. He’s got to keep eye contact.

He knows he’s lost. But he’ll go down swinging.

They get deposited out in the clear winter sunshine fifteen minutes later. Hunk hustles Lance away from the fans and paparazzi and into a waiting car, trying to keep Lance’s stormy face out of the tabloids as much as possible. He knows what’s coming, anyway. As soon as Lance is in the backseat of the Range Rover with the tinted windows up, he’s yelling,

“ _Fuck_!”

“I know,” Hunk says. He looks miserable, fingers working to loosen the knot of his sunny yellow tie. “I know.”

“Fuck them! Fuck their whole families! Jesus, I thought we had them, I thought maybe this time, I thought they’d be humans for once instead of cash-hungry robots – “

Lance starts feverishly taking off his tie, unbuttoning his suit jacket, undoing his sleeves. He’s got to get out of this fucking monkey suit, he wears the clothes and plays the game and still they fucking –

“’A new career,' bullshit!” He spits out. “I started on ‘Garrison Varsity’ when I was fourteen fucking years old! I have a seven-year career, the fans are loyal as fuck, they wouldn’t care that I’m queer, half of them have figured it out anyway! And I make Iverson _so much fucking money_ , the number of stupid commercials and bullshit merchandise he’s slapped my face on, _I’m_ the cash cow, and he can’t even – they won’t even – “

Hunk shoves a water bottle into Lance’s hands, has a whole conversation with his eyes. Lance opens the Evian bottle, takes a massive drink. Outside, the scenery is all rolling hills, dense vegetation. They’re not in LA. Hard to say, since all the bullshit has followed them here.

“Lance, I’m sorry,” Hunk says. His voice is so quiet. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get them to see. I thought – “

“No, oh my God,” he says quickly. “This is not your fault at all. You’re…you did amazing, all that work, you almost had them convinced. I never would’ve gotten that far without you.”

“But I couldn’t – “

Lance shakes his head, tears prickling. “You’re one guy, against like 20 assholes. I mean,” he shrugs. “What could either of us do? It’s not like…” He sniffs in, hard, tries not to feel like a baby. “It’s not like I have anybody to come out for.”

Because Keith ghosted him. He held out for as long as he could, kept convincing himself that Keith was busy or going through something or kidnapped by aliens and was piloting robot lions in space, _some_ good explanation for why he stopped responding to all of Lance’s texts. Lance has a problem with letting go, he really does; he convinced himself Jenny Shaybon was in love with him even when she treated him like nothing more than a pretty handbag, and even after Allura and Hunk and everyone told him that she was just after his money, and even after she _herself_ said that they were never even serious, he still thought she was gonna come around and they’d get married. He’s a hopeless romantic, born from the sepia-toned stories his parents told of falling in love during the Cuban Revolution, the stories that all his siblings rolled their eyes at while Lance begged for more details. He’s always wanted true love, always needed someone to handle the overflow of affection that usually ends up exhausting and alienating his girlfriends. Keith wasn’t the first guy he slept with, but he was the first guy that he ever kinda wanted to date. Something about that rebel-without-a-cause, hardscrabble, moody asshole vibe drew Lance like a fly to honey. Keith was enchanting.

But he didn’t respond to a text for a whole month, and Lance knows the writing’s on the wall. Deep down he can’t help but think it must’ve been the celebrity thing. He saw how freaked out Keith was when they went to the Ritz, and tried his best to keep his job out of their conversations after that. But it must’ve been too much, too different for an introvert like Keith. And how ironic, that this job that Lance loves, that brings him so much joy and helps his family and makes so many people happy, would be the reason he has trouble finding love. When he first got famous, he thought this was the best thing to ever happen – no girl would _ever_ ignore him now, he was gonna be _rich_ and _famous_ and he’d have girls lining up so he could take them out. He wasn’t wrong about the girls part; he’s just finding out that it’s not as fun as he thought it would be.

He knows he’s only 21. He knows, logically, that this hardly the twilight of his life, and he’s in no rush to find love. But right now, with the funk he’s in, he’s 102% sure he’s gonna be single forever.

“Lance,” Hunk says.

He looks up, sees his best friend, smiling at him in a sad sort of way. And how great is that – Hunk is that sad for him. Nothing about this has anything to do with his personal life, and he’s willing to fight and cry for Lance’s right to love who he loves.

“We’ll be back in LA in a month and a half,” Hunk says. “A month and a half, and then we’ll come at it again. New strategy, clear eyes, all that.”

“Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose?” Lance says immediately, and Hunk snorts.

“Yes, Lance. Exactly.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

Keith looks over at Pidge, bundled so tightly in fuzzy blankets that only her glasses and little raccoon hands are showing.

“Going to Adam’s parents,” he replies, taking a sip of hot cocoa. “It’s our little tradition. Since, you know. Shiro and I don’t…uh.”

“Yeah,” she says, “totally.” She’s become a mini-expert in Keith’s family life, just from hearing all the shit Keith vents at her. To be fair, it’s not that much to learn.

Before Shiro and Adam got together, Keith would always meet up with Shiro one-on-one, whenever they could. When Shiro was deployed, sometimes Keith wouldn’t see him until January or February. But they ‘holidayed’ as much as they could, with Keith still in foster care and Shiro injured. After Shiro and Adam got together they were both active-duty for a while, but Adam never begrudged sharing their precious home time with his boyfriend’s weird foster brother. They’re both off active duty now and they go up to Anaheim for the day with Adam’s parents and little sister. Keith always feels like such a tag-a-long, and it’s going to be so much worse now that he’s pregnant and Adam’s family are going to have so many questions, but he’d never not go. It means too much to Shiro, plus he never wants Adam’s family to think he doesn’t appreciate their persistent hospitality.

Pidge nods, flicks through Netflix. Her apartment is much more lived-in now, her various tech all set up and fairy lights on all the walls. It’s much warmer than Keith’s new place.

“Why?” He asks, belatedly curious.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over to mine,” she says, too airily for her not to be a little bit nervous. “Not mine, I mean, my parents’. If you didn’t have anywhere to go. I know you and Shiro don’t have any family, so.”

“Pidge,” Keith says, baffled and touched and a little red in the face. “That’s…that’s so nice. Thanks.”

“Shut up,” she says automatically. “You might not think it’s so nice if you come. My mom’s very emotional about pregnancy. Wants to document everything. And they’re very curious about you, would’ve been all over you.”

“Yeah, Shiro really wants to meet you too,” Keith admits. He couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough when Shiro asked why he couldn’t do dinner one night, and had to admit that he made a friend at the obstetrician’s office. Shiro and Adam reacted to the news like Keith told them he was marrying a prince. “They’re going on a cruise over New Year’s, though, so they’ll be out of town for a bit.”

“What? They’re leaving you here alone for New Year’s?”

“Don’t,” he begs. “They’re bad enough about it.”

Shiro and Adam booked the anniversary cruise long before Keith got pregnant. They’ve both offered to cancel and stay home with him at least ten times. Failing that, they’ve both offered to buy him a ticket, even though Keith can’t drink and doesn’t dance and hates shuffleboard and would generally be a shitty cruise buddy. It’s gotten so bad, Keith’s started loudly talking about bleeding gums and constipation and every other gross pregnancy side effect every time they bring it up.

“It’s their four-year anniversary, so they deserve the time off,” Keith says. _And time away from me_ , he thinks. “I don’t mind, it’ll be nice, get the new apartment all in order and stuff.”

Pidge nods, burrows deeper in the covers, still mindlessly flicking through Netflix.

“If you want,” she says, quietly, so Keith has to lean in a little to hear her, “we’re gonna be hanging out on New Year’s. Playing board games, all that. So, just in case you decide you don’t want to be alone.”

She sounds so nervous asking, like she’s preparing herself for Keith to say no. Keith remembers, suddenly, that she’s nineteen; normally, he’s pretty sure college kids get wasted with their friends on New Year’s Eve, and instead she’s at home with her parents, pregnant. Her social circle seems to be as small as Keith’s.

Only difference is, he thinks she wasn’t always this way.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” he says. “Thanks, Pidgeon.”

“Yeah?” She says, whole face lighting up before she schools her expression. “Uh, yeah, I mean, that’d be cool. Prepared to be mothered within an inch of your life, though, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Something old and sad twinges at Keith’s hard. He touches a palm to the warm swell of his stomach, toasty despite the cold air outside.

Being mothered is not exactly something Keith has a lot of experience in. He’s not sure how he’s gonna feel about it.

_Think of it as a learning experience_ , he thinks, looking through the potted plants and out into the dark winter night. _Maybe watching an actual parent will give me some ideas. Keep this kid from being so fucked up._

Who is he kidding. This kid’s gonna be fucked up even if Keith observes an army of mothers.

“Do we have any more queso?” He says aloud. “I need to eat my feelings.”

Pidge nods, reaches out to push the queso and chips towards him.

“Always a wise choice,” she says solemnly.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning of Keith’s 16-week scan finds him packing an actual nice shirt and his one pair of paternity pants into his motorcycle when he rides to work. He’s not thrilled about going into work at all and would rather take the whole day off, but he’s trying to save as much sick leave as he can, so he’s only taking a half day. He’ll be too jittery to pay much attention to the bikes before the scan anyway.

He hasn’t told anyone besides Sendak he’s pregnant and his jumpsuit hides his belly very well, but he’s still sure they know something’s up. There’ve been a lot of hushed conversations that die as soon as he enters the breakroom, lots of snide little comments about heavy boxes of tools, if he’s really okay with carrying those. He hasn’t risen to the bait, but it’s only a matter of time. He changes in the breakroom after lunch and leaves out the back emergency exit so no one has to see him in street clothes. There won’t be any doubt once they see that.

He gets quite a few looks when he pulls up at the doctor’s office on his bike, and one woman boggles openly when she sees his belly as he gets off the bike. Keith glares at her, face flushed, and stalks into the doctor’s office with his jacket pulled as tight around his belly as he can. Stupid cow. Never seen a motorcycle before, huh bitch?

His mood sours as he sits in the waiting room and is the only one there by himself – every other pregnant person has someone else, a partner to hold hands, a friend, _someone._ There’s a male couple who are very early in the process, neither one showing, talking in stage whispers about how much they hope they’re pregnant, that the home test didn’t lie. “I just really want to have your baby,” one of them whispers, and the other leans in to press a kiss to his nose.

Keith has to turn his head away, a wave of jealousy and self-pity spiking through his body, so strong his eyes prickle. He takes a deep breath, adjusts himself in the uncomfortable chair. He’s not alone. He doesn’t have Lance, but he’s got Shiro and Adam and Pidge. They’re just not here because – well, because he didn’t tell Shiro and Adam. He didn’t want them missing work for him and he knows they would’ve. They would’ve taken the whole day off, gone out to lunch and cooed over the ultrasound, and Keith did not think he could handle that.

Pidge knows, because they talked about it last week, but she’s got class. He wasn’t worried about Pidge coming anyway. She gets his need to keep this to himself.

He fishes out the most un-parental magazine he can find, which is a very, very old copy of _Home and Garden_. Keith has no interest in either homes or gardens, but he flicks through and manages to convince himself that every real kitchen does need an accented backsplash before the nurse calls him back. They weigh him first, which really seems cruel. Keith stares angrily at the extra seven pounds that have magically appeared. He hasn’t gained weight in three years, and now he’s suddenly seven pounds heavier because of his fucking occupied uterus. Jesus Christ.

(Maybe he can see why they wanted to weight him first. Get it out of the way.)

They take his blood pressure, take some blood (“Wow, you’re gonna do great with labor!” The nurse says, after Keith doesn’t flinch at the needle and watches impassively at the blood leaving him. Keith had once again forgot about labor, and _then_ started to get queasy.)

Finally he’s alone, sitting in the scratchy white gown on the exam table, drumming his bare heels against the table and trying to keep his anxiety down. Shit, this is the scan where they find out if anything’s wrong with the baby, right? Isn’t it? Shit, fuck, what if he actually has a baby with Down’s syndrome? Is it too late to abort? God, he’s an asshole, he’s a huge asshole, who let him have a baby?

(He could’ve worn a condom. He didn’t. He thought about it. He didn’t.)

The door startles him, sounding like a gunshot, and Dr. Rosenthal raises an eyebrow at the way he almost jumps off the table.

“Hello, Keith,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. Thank God she’s stopped calling him Mr. Kogane, he doesn’t want to feel any more like a kid pretending to be a grown-up. “You okay there?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, blushing.

She pulls over a chair, sits down and starts flicking through his chart. “So sixteen weeks, huh? How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” he says honestly. “The puking’s mostly done. My energy’s back up. My, uh, gums are bleeding?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Yeah, that’s normal,” she says calmly. “Just one more way pregnancy is by far the weirdest thing that can happen to a human. It’s just freaky.”

Keith actually smiles at that. “You seem very whatever about the ‘miracle of life.’ Or whatever the magazines say.”

“I mean, it is incredible,” she replies. “It’s a badass move, having a baby. You haven’t ever seen a birth – or maybe you have, I don’t know – but it’s the most epic, mind-blowing thing you’ll ever. But I don’t know about miracle.”

Keith ducks his head, puts a hand on his belly. No miracle, just a drunk movie star and no common sense.

She notices the motion. “Looks like you’re showing.”

“Uh, yeah, a little.”

“That’s good, that’s normal. Different people show differently. Men usually show earlier than women because of the way your uterus sits on your hips, but if you’ve got strong abdominal muscles it can take longer.” She hovers her gloved hands over him. “Can you lay back and I’ll take a look?”

Keith nods, lays back and lets her lift up his gown with quick but gentle hands. He flinches when she touches his stomach; her hands are cold, rubbery with the gloves. They’re the first hands that have touched him there that weren’t his own. She presses down softly and he has to fight a rush of unexplainable tears.

“Feels good,” she says. He feels the length of a tape measure, but she very helpfully doesn’t say that number out loud. When she lowers the gown again he has to suppress a relieved sigh; at least until she slips the gown off his front to look at his chest.

“Any changes in your chest? Sensitivity in your nipples, swelling, tenderness?”

Keith _feels_ the blush, a prickling of heat all over his face. “Uh, yeah. A little. Feels kinda…” All the words he wants to say are so humiliating he couldn’t possibly say them in front of this lady.

“Full?” She says, shooting him right out of the sky. He squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “That’s normal. Good thing, really. Breastfeeding is much cheaper than bottles, helps you lose weight too.”

Keith nods with his eyes still closed, unwilling to look at her as she says very helpful, very practical things about money-saving and weight loss that should appeal to Keith’s logical nature. He hears her sigh, very softly, and when he opens his eyes she’s sitting on a stool, pulled up close to the exam table.

“Humor me for a moment,” she says. “But I’d like to talk about how you’re doing emotionally with this pregnancy. I believe it was unplanned, if I’m remembering correctly?”

Keith nods. That same squirmy feeling from before when she was touching his belly, it’s back – that same refrain of _don’t touch, don’t touch, private, private, stranger, mine._

“Do you have a relationship with the other father?”

Keith has no choice but to laugh, which to his horror, comes out wet and cracked. He scrubs furiously at his cheeks as his nose gets hot and itchy.

“No,” he says, voice wobbly. “He doesn’t even know.”

Dr. Rosenthal nods, writes something down. “And why didn’t you tell him?”

There’s no judgment in her voice, which makes it easier for Keith to talk.

“It was a one-night stand. We didn’t…he doesn’t want this. His life would be ruined. I just didn’t think…both of us needed to be punished for this.”

“But you both participated willingly, right? Shouldn’t you both share in the responsibility?”

_He’s a closeted movie star,_ Keith wants to say, words pressing at his teeth. _He’s closeted, and I’m in love with him, and he’s rich and famous and wonderful and I’m just me, and I don’t want to be his secret shame._

“I didn’t think he’d want to be involved,” he says, hoping the finality in his words will stop her.

It does, but she just switches tracks. “So how is your support system, if not the other father? Family, friends, home life?”

“All good,” he says, and this, thank God, he can answer truthfully. “Just moved into a bigger apartment, more rooms and space.”

Keith didn’t ‘move’ himself. Shiro and Adam and a couple of Air Force buddies did it all in under an hour while Keith carries little stuff and felt pretty useless. The after-move settling in has been more fun. Keith’s redecorating the little basement apartment, putting up what little stuff he has, and Shiro’s promised him that they’ll get more stuff, go thrift-shopping on the weekends for furniture and baby gear. Keith just likes settling into somewhere permanent, the idea of a home for the baby that will be all theirs, no more moving around and sharing with new kids every six months. The sanctuary he never had.

“The house is doing good,” he says. “Just getting some furniture with my brother. I want a rocking chair.” He musters a smile, which Dr. Rosenthal returns.

“A very important component of the room, to be sure. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of emotionally. You can talk to me about any concerns you have about the pregnancy, even ones that aren’t medical. That’s what I’m here for.”

Keith smiles and nods, even though inside he’s laughing hysterically, because what concerns _doesn’t_ he have about the pregnancy?

“All right, if you’re all set, do you want to see your baby?”

Keith’s heart thumps, adrenaline spiking. He nods, speechlessly.

“Wait right here, I’ll send in the ultrasound tech. You can put your normal clothes back on.”

Keith fidgets all through the wait, shifting anxiously on the paper just to hear it crinkle. The tech who eventually comes is black and petite, talking happy at him as she sets up her equipment. She instructs Keith to lay down, then pulls up his shirt and slathers his belly in gel, just like the first time. Keith is struck by a surreal feeling, like he’s watching a movie about some other person’s fuck-up and not his own, like his consciousness is totally separated from what’s happening to his body. _If someone else was here_ , he thinks, _might’ve been nice. Have someone to pull me out of my own head._

The silence mounts while the tech moves the wand around, clicking measurements and drawing lines. The baby’s already so much bigger than last time – a complete human, just in miniature, swimming around inside of Keith. Totally dependent on him. He wants to reach out and touch it. Hold it in his hands and say _hello. I’m sorry._

“Everything looks great,” she says brightly, and Keith releases a breath. “Very healthy peanut in there! Very happy. Did you want to know the sex?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, dazed at the proclamation that the baby is happy. How can she know if the baby’s happy? Why would the baby be happy? They’re inside of _Keith_ ; as far as fathers go, this kid is shit outta luck.

“Well, there’s always the teensy possibility that this is wrong, _but_ …” She clicks a button, smiles at the screen, “seems to me you’re having a baby girl.”

“What?” Keith says, his heart rushing.

“A girl,” she says with a laugh. “One of those ones with the bows and dresses? I’m sure you’ve heard of them?”

Keith laughs, tears getting caught in the crease of his smile. Fuck, when did he start crying? Fuck, he’s gonna be the father of a baby girl. How did he get here? Holy shit, a _girl_.

“Most dads get that same look,” she says knowingly. “When they find out they’re having a girl.”

She doesn’t specify the look, but Keith knows – it’s scared shitless.

He stays dazed all the way through checkout, until he’s blinking in the bright sun. His phone buzzes with a text; he looks at it like it’s an alien.

_So???_ Pidge has written.

_So what?_

_What’s the sex you absolute idiot!!!_

_You don’t care about sex. You said gender roles were the instruments of a patriarchal society,_ he writes with shaking fingers.

_That’s what I think, yeah. But you said you want to find out the sex and that’s important to you so tell me tell me!!_

Fuck, he’s gonna cry.

He calls her, not wanting to say it over text. It’s too big, needs the words.

“Is everything okay?” She says as soon as she picks up. “With the baby? Is it healthy?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” He sniffs. His voice is shot. He doesn’t know why this is affecting him so much. “They’re fine.”

“What the fuck are they?” Pidge enunciates. “I swear to God if you don’t fucking tell me – “

“It’s a girl,” he says. The words stun him; he almost cries again. “I’m having a girl.”

Pidge cheers, so loud Keith has to pull the phone away from his ear. “Fuck the patriarchy!” She screams. “The badass, leather-wearing motorcycle mechanic is having a girl, _fuck yes_!”

“Why are you like this,” he says, laughing.

“Mountain Dew and suppressed rage! Hell yeah, you’re having a girl, she’s gonna run circles around you!”

“Oh God, she is, isn’t she?”

“Fuck yeah, and I’m gonna teach her to code and you’re gonna teach her how to fix bikes and scowl and she’s gonna be the inspiration for a Marvel character and she’ll kick _so much ass_.”

Well, that doesn’t sound too bad.

“I’ll name her Buffy the Patriarchy Slayer,” he says, and Pidge laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

_Cozy Christmas: Lance and Allura Cuddle Up!_ By Nyma van Dyne

_The weather outside may be frightful, but there’s something warmer than a fire to keep our favorite couple toasty through the cold months! Co-stars Lance McClain, 21, and Allura Altea, 23, were spotted at a Christmas-themed pop-up bar in Atlanta, Georgia, where they’ve been filming in nearby Macon for their upcoming thriller, ‘Edge of a Knife.’_ _They went on a Tuesday, probably hoping to beat the crowds, but eagle-eyed fans can spot love when they see it!_

_“They were all over each other,” an observer writes. “They tried each other’s drinks; Lance gave Allura some of his gingerbread cocktail on a spoon! They didn’t even care about anyone else, they were wrapped up in each other all night. It was so romantic!”_

_Looks like they’ve both been good this year; Santa doesn’t give presents like this to just anybody! Lance McClain is Hollywood’s resident flirt; we’ve seen him with ladies from Dakota Fanning to Selena Gomez, and he’s never settled down before Allura. Miss Altea – who was nominated for an Oscar for her role in ‘Windswept’, also starring Lance – has never dated before, saying multiple times that she wants to focus on her career right now. There must be something in that Christmas air, though, because we can see the stars in her eyes from here! Tell us what you think about this holiday romance!_

 

Keith feels his daughter kick for the first time while he’s reading the article. It's a bitter cold winter day; Keith's bundled up in blankets on his ratty couch, a single pathetic strand of Christmas lights hung up over the tiny windows. He's alone and freezing while Lance gets Christmas cocktails with his gorgeous co-star, laughing and beautiful and unburdened.

Keith puts a hand on his belly, feeling the little thumps against his palm, an insistent little foot asserting its vitality. _I’m here. I’m alive._

He can’t help it. He starts to cry, little hitching breaths that turn into gulping sobs, crying so hard it hurts to breathe and every kick jolts the breath out of him.

It’s just…it’s Lance’s _daughter._

And he’s never going to meet her.

Never even going to see Keith again. Because he’s in love with Allura Altea and that’s the way it should be. Keith would never be anything but a shameful smudge on Lance’s perfect, glittering life, so it's better if they don't even talk. If they don't even know each other, even though they made a new human who is right now telling Keith that she's alive.

He pulls up the blanket to his chin, slips both hands lower to cradle his belly, and cries quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

He buys a bottle of wine to take to the Holt’s for New Years. He knows it’s a thing grown-ups do and he doesn’t have the patient to try and figure out something else. He gets a few looks when he goes to check out with his baby bump and bottle of Merlot, but he glares at them until they back off. _He’s_ not the one fucking drinking it.

He finally throws in the towel and takes the bus to the Holt’s instead of riding his bike. He’s still not that big, but it’s his _balance_ – he feels totally wobbly most days, trying to figure out how to deal with a body that hasn’t gained weight since he was 18 and now suddenly is misshapen and weird. He pats his bike sadly and pulls a cover over it and then gets on the bus. He listens to his audiobook from the library and tries not to feel so nervous. It’s Pidge’s family, for God’s sake. Probably just more brown-haired, glasses-wearing nerds.

He's not wrong. The Holt homestead is nice from the outside, a manicured driveway and cute flowers in the windowsill. Keith walks up to the front door and Pidge answers before he even rings the doorbell.

“Hi,” she says, grin just a bit too wide. It makes Keith relax. Guess he’s not the only nervous one. “Find the place okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

She looks down at the wine bottle in his hands. “Did you bring wine?”

“Yes,” he says defensively.

“It’s a dry house, dumbass.”

Keith’s heart drops to his stomach. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, I didn’t – “

He stops when he sees her grinning face. “I’m messing with you. God, you’re jumpy tonight. Get in here.”

He smacks her arm, and she growls and hits him back. He takes off his coat in the living room as Pidge locks the door behind him, and as she turns he sees the swell of her bump under her Christmas sweater. He’s never actually seen it – her clothes are normally so shapeless they swallow her whole, belly and all. This sweater isn’t exactly fitted, but apparently she’s big enough that there’s no hiding it.

She catches him staring and flushes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Doctor says I’m showing more because I’m little.”

Keith raises his hands in surrender. “I’m showing too, it’s fine. I felt the kicks for the first time last week.”

It forces a tiny smile from Pidge. “Feels weird, huh?”

“Like a fucking alien,” Keith agrees.

"Come on,” she says, beckoning him into the kitchen. “My parents haven’t attacked yet but let me tell you, their patience doesn’t last long.”

The Holts are sitting at a gorgeous dining room table, drinking wine and laughing, two parents and a long-haired older brother. When Pidge and Keith arrive they all jump up to greet them.

“Keith,” Pidge says, sweeping a hand over three eager faces. “My spawners and their original spawn.”

“Katie,” her mother says, which prompts Keith to whip around and stare at Pidge in delight. ‘Katie?’ He mouths, and she makes a face. “Don’t be rude. I’m Colleen, dear, it’s so nice to meet you!”

She walks around the table to him, motherly and warm with her apron and short-cropped hair. He tenses, terrified that she’s going to hug him, and brandishes the wine bottle like a shield. “Uh, for you. Mrs. Holt.”

“Oh, how nice!” She says, taking it and smiling. “Aren’t you a dear. Look, Sam, Keith’s brought merlot!”

“I love merlot,” the father says, coming around to shake Keith’s hand. His hair and beard are both silver, with friendly eyes behind square-rimmed glasses. “You must be psychic! How’d you know?”

Keith smiles weakly as Pidge’s brother comes around to shake his hand. “I’m Matt,” he says simply. He’s _identical_ to Pidge; it’s uncanny. “Nice to meet you.”

“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Holt asks, already walking into the kitchen. “We haven’t eaten yet. I’ve got plenty for you if you want to join us for dinner.”

“Uh, sure. Only if everyone else is eating, Mrs. Holt.”

“Colleen,” she corrects gently. “Anything to drink? Soda, juice, water?”

“A beer would be nice,” he says, trying for a joke, and they all laugh. Would’ve sucked if they thought he was serious, he doesn't want them thinking he's a negligent parent.

“I’m drinking sparkling grape juice,” Pidge says. “How’s that sound?”

“As close to champagne as we’re gonna get,” he replies.

Mrs. Holt brings him a glass and he sits down at the gorgeous dining room table. Dinner is warm bread and salad, a big pot roast with mashed potatoes and asparagus, lemon meringue pie for dessert. It’s the best meal Keith’s had in two weeks; with Shiro and Adam gone he’s reverted to a diet of Chinese takeout and frozen pizza, so this is delicious. The conversation sticks to general topics, work and weather and Christmas stuff. He can see several times where Mrs. Holt wants to ask about his pregnancy, but she holds herself back. He makes a note to thank Pidge; he’s sure this is her doing. It’s a welcome change from Adam’s family for Christmas; they couldn’t get enough, asking him all sorts of questions, wanting to feel his belly and offer birth tips and quiz him about his knowledge of breastfeeding, while reminiscing about their birth stories. Everyone treated him like a delicious little scandal; he could see it in their eyes, the hungry desire to know and judge and figure out how this sullen kid that’s never even brought a boyfriend over got knocked up. Keith felt like an exotic zoo animal the entire time. Adam was embarrassed and a little furious at his family; at one point he sent Keith to the backyard to get some air, and when Keith came back there were no more questions about his pregnancy for the rest of the night

He's mentioning it briefly, having Christmas with his brother’s boyfriend’s family, when Matt perks up. “Did you say Shiro? Your brother?”

“Yeah?”

“Takashi Shirogane?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Holt has sat up now. “You know him?”

“We were in the Air Force together,” Matt says with a grin. “Went on tour together! He’s your brother?”

“Yeah, foster brother. I didn’t know you were in the Force, I thought you did stuff with computers…?”

“Yeah – for the Air Force,” he laughs. “Dad was active duty too. We both worked in intelligence and technology.”

“Wow,” Keith says, laughing too. “Yeah, that’s…a really small world.”

“Shiro was one of the best commanders we had,” Mr. Holt says. “It was always an honor to work with him.”

Keith feels an entirely misplaced swelling of pride. “That’s Shiro.”

“How’s he doing? Since his injury?”

Keith appreciates the frankness; most people do a weird shuffling around Shiro losing an arm in combat, calling it ‘his accident’ or ‘the incident’ or ‘his last tour’ or just, “ _You know.”_

“He’s doing good,” Keith replies honestly. “The prosthetic they got him is really something else, it works great. He and Adam are on a cruise right now for their anniversary. They’re in St. Kitts right now, or at least they were when they called me this morning.”

“And you’re stuck here,” Pidge says.

Keith shrugs and looks over at her. “I wouldn’t call it ‘stuck.’”

They move to the living room for board games, Times Square live feed on the TV, volume turned down low. True to form, the Holts are fiends at board games; even Mrs. Holt (“ _Colleen_ , Keith”) is wickedly analytical, making Keith wonder if she’s also some kind of Air Force tech genius and the whole family are really secret spies. He holds his own at Battleship, but in everything else he’s a happy fifth place. Their dog, Bae Bae, enters and sniffs ominously at Keith before plopping on Pidge’s lap and staying there all night.

And that’s the most interesting thing about the evening: Pidge. She’s from a very proud military family, with happily-married parents and an overachieving brother. This is clearly not a family where teenage pregnancies from the beloved younger daughter would be the norm. Judging by all the teen dramas Keith’s watched, Pidge’s pregnancy should be a source of shame to the family, and he thought she’d be treated as such. But it’s the opposite; they _baby_ her. Mrs. Holt barely lets her get up, preferring to grab her drinks and food for her; Mr. Holt gives up his chair, even though there's plenty of room on the couch; Matt goes easy on her in Catan, choosing not to screw her over on his turn. Pidge seemed on edge at the start of the night; by the end she’s downright sour. Pidge is the most independent nineteen-year-old Keith has ever seen; she’s self-sufficient, employed and in school, living totally on her own. He’s not sure why she’s getting this pitying, invalid treatment, when she’s the one who had sex without a condom. Nobody’s given Keith the same treatment, that’s for sure.

Sipping sparkling grape juice, watching Pidge as she rhythmically pets her dog with a distant, pained look in her eyes, Keith thinks, for the very first time, that there’s something else going on here. There’s something she’s not telling him. The mysterious father, Pidge’s lesbian sexuality…something’s not right.

“So, Keith,” Mrs. Holt says, pulling him out of his reverie. “I haven’t gotten a chance to say congratulations yet!”

She seems to mean it, grinning at him. “Uh, thanks.” Guess the gag order is up.

“Do you know what you’re having yet? Katie won’t find out.”

“Yeah, it’s a girl.” His stomach still swoops, every time he’s said it. (It could be worse – when he told Adam and Shiro, Adam started crying.)

Mrs. Holt beams, clapping her hands together. “A _girl!_ Oh, that’s amazing, how darling! A baby girl, that’s – “

“Gender is a social construct, Mom,” Pidge says with a roll of her eyes.

“Oh, I know that! You think you weren’t the terror of the family? Breaking into your teachers’ offices, hacking the computers, nothing ladylike about that! I wasn’t surprised at all when the Air Force came calling for you too, all that energy – “

Pidge’s face is stormy, and there's a prickling silence from the two men, and Mrs. Holt immediately switches topics. “But having a baby girl is so much fun, it was wonderful. Do you have the nursery set up?”

“Kinda? Work in progress.”

“It takes a while,” she says with a smile. “We didn’t get Matt’s done until a week before!”

“Don’t pretend that wasn’t you,” Mr. Holt butts in. “You made me change the paint!”

“Because you painted it _puke-green_ after I told you how much I hated it!”

“The color was called ‘green tea’! You love green tea!”

“I loved not feeling like I was going to vomit every time I went into the baby’s room!”

Matt snorts in his champagne.

Around eleven Keith goes to the bathroom and then decides to give himself some alone time. He grabs his jacket from the closet and goes outside, onto a back porch ringed by the dark, shaggy shapes of evergreens. Even in the darkness he can see the hunched form of Pidge, sitting on the ground with an afghan over her shoulders, head in her hands.

She startles when Keith sits beside her. He gives her a look and she sighs, takes off her glasses to rub at her eyes. He’s struck, once more, by how painfully young she looks. Like a little kid.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, which isn’t an answer.

Keith nods. He doesn’t want to talk about Lance. She must not want to talk about whatever her issue is.

He has no idea what to do, so he puts a tentative hand on her back, over the fuzzy fabric of the blanket she’s wearing like a cape. He scratches his fingers, very gently.

She falls into him like a little domino, tucking her head in his shoulder. She’s small and warm, and her touch loosens and soothes something inside of him.

“I love my parents,” she says softly, fiercely. “They’re amazing, really. I just…”

She sighs, presses her face in his shoulder. He gives her time. The baby inside him kicks once, twice. He wonders, stupidly, if Pidge can feel it, close as they are.

“It’s just not how I expected my life to be,” she says finally.

Keith thinks of the Air Force. Thinks about Pidge following in her family’s footsteps. How could they not want her, how could they ever pass her up? Maybe she backed out of her own accord; he’s more inclined to think it’s due to the imminent future that’s pushing at the hem of her Christmas sweater.

“Me neither,” Keith says.

They stay pressed tight for a few minutes, listening to the pop of premature fireworks off in the hills. Lance is probably getting drunk with celebrities right now. Maybe he’s in New York with Allura; maybe they’ll kiss when the ball drops and he’ll taste bright and fizzy like champagne instead of dark and sticky like rum and Coke.

He shoves the thought away. Looks at the sky.

“Wanna go back inside?” Pidge asks.

“Okay,” he replies.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the night is actually really nice. The Holts, a little tipsy on champagne, make several strategic blunders during Ticket to Ride that allow Keith and Pidge, the only sober players, to decimate them. When the ball drops everyone cheers and toasts, and Keith gets hugs and kisses and pats on the back that leave him flustered and flushed. They stay up even after that, chatting and watching the performances, until Keith starts nodding off and says he should probably head home.

“Head home?” Mrs. Holt says. “Keith, don’t be silly. It’s dangerous to go on the road with drunk drivers, Uber prices will be absurd, it’s too late for the buses. You’re sleeping here.”

“Um,” he replies.

“We’ve got a perfectly good guestroom,” she says, already up and moving. “Come on, I’ll get you a toothbrush.”

Keith shoots a look at Pidge, who grins and mouths, ‘Don’t fight it.’

Honestly, Keith has no idea how he was going to get home, so this is a bit of a relief. Mrs. Holt gives him a spare pair of sweatpants and a shirt from Matt, as he’s the largest in the house. He thanks her even though he knows for a fact the shirt won’t fit. He brushes his teeth in the bathroom and then creeps back into the guest room totally bare-chested, the band of the sweatpants pushed low under his belly. He crawls into bed, head pounding from exhaustion and all the sugar in the juice, under stiff, clean sheets in a little guestroom decorated green. He rubs his belly, wishes good night to the peanut.

_This is the year,_ he thinks. _The year it all happens._

The fireworks still flash outside the window, but he’s asleep in two minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

_My parents loved you_ , Pidge texts the next day.

Keith, who is balls deep in a Lance movie marathon, is grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep him from feeling totally pathetic. _That’s surprising_ , he replies.

_They want you over for dinner,_ Pidge says.

_What, already?_

_Not today, they’re hungover today. Like next week or something. Also my brother wants Shiro’s current number so they can bro out and get beers._

_If our brothers are Air Force buddies does that make us siblings by association?_

_Ew_ , she says instantly, with a puke face emoji. _Fuck that._

Then, not five seconds later, _I’m bored. Stop watching Lance McClain movies and come over._

Keith snorts and turns off the TV. _Gladly._

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Shiro says, leaning back and taking a sip of his beer. Adam’s had to stay late at the base for some reason, so Shiro and Keith are having much-needed alone time. Shiro’s been dating Adam for so long, and he’s become such an integral part of their little family, that Keith forgets how many years it was just him and Shiro. It’s been nice, tonight. Feels like old times, before everything.

“Have you and Adam talked about children?” He feels awkward as soon as he says it, face getting hot, but Shiro doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he says. “We both want a family. Adam would prefer one of us to be civilian first, just in case. A kid with two dads in the military, even reserve, is a little too much danger for him. I think it’ll be him, honestly. Who gets out. And then we’d talk about it.”

“You’d have to marry him first,” Keith points out.

“We’ll get there,” Shiro says placidly. “No rush.”

“Adam might leave you if you don’t put a ring on it.”

“Adam won’t leave,” Shiro says, which Keith knows good and well. “I’m the only one who’ll put up with his ramblings about the large Hadron collider and he knows it.”

Keith laughs, shifting on the easy chair he’s sprawled himself in. Week nineteen has come with very painful leg cramps, which makes him feel like an invalid whenever he has to collapse in the nearest chair during work. The internet says water will help, so he’s been chugging it like a dying man.

“Did you…” He stops, tries to remember it’s just Shiro. “Did you ever talk about who would be the one to carry it? If you had a family?”

Shiro looks at him over the rim of his bottle, and Keith feels totally busted.

“We had talked about it, yeah,” Shiro says. “When I was in the hospital, they were worried that the treatments might affect my fertility. Either way, my sperm or my womb. They weren’t sure. So we had to make contingency plans. In case things went wrong, who would carry it. If we even could have a biological child. We talked about that too.”

“Did they? Affect your fertility?”

“Not that they think. All the tests have come back positive. There were so many chemicals pumped in me to help the prosthetic take, they couldn’t tell me all the possible side effects, but everything looks fine now.”

He looks down at his prosthetic, flexes the fingers a few times. Keith wonders what he’s thinking about; all that he lost, or all that he could have lost?

“And…now? That you don’t have the contingency plans?” Keith sits up, folding the recliner in so he can look at Shiro properly.

Shiro seems to consider his words, his face carefully blank as he takes another long drink. “I’ll be honest; neither of us felt a true calling to be pregnant. We were both active duty, we’d seen how pregnant airmen were treated. We were already gay; the added stigma of a pregnancy seemed like it would make our lives much harder. Now, though…I certainly wouldn’t be opposed. Adam comes from a larger family, he’s seen it before, he would have a better idea of it and what it entails. I’ve got no idea.”

“Exactly, neither did I,” Keith says.

Shiro smiles. “I won’t lie, it’s been fascinating watching you go through this. I’ve never seen it up close like this.”

“You still haven’t seen it up close. You didn’t see the puking, or the constipation, or my _nipples_ – “

Shiro tries valiantly not to react, but the twisting of his face gives him away.

“Nipples,” Keith says, because he’s an asshole.

“Alright, we got it,” Shiro says. “Copy on the nipples thing.”

Keith laughs, puts an instinctive hand on his belly when he feels a kick.

“Is it kicking?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods. It feels weird to say to his non-pregnant brother; that there’s something alive in him and it’s doing human things like kicking. He’d be freaked out if it was someone he knew, he wouldn’t want to hear about it. Shiro looks intrigued, however.

“Can I feel? Would that be okay?”

“Uhhhhh,” Keith says, which is not an answer. It’s just Shiro. Shiro once watched him puke up his body weight in purple jello shots. Shiro’s not gonna judge. “Okay. If you want.”

Shiro comes up and walks over, an excited look on his face. Keith pushes the blanket off his lap, awkwardly leans back so Shiro can get a better angle on his belly.

“I don’t know if you’ll be able to,” Keith says, belatedly. “I don’t know when that happens. You know. That you can feel. Like, on the outside.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, unfazed by Keith’s rambling. He puts a warm hand on Keith’s belly; Keith doesn’t jump, but he does shiver. His belly is so fucking sensitive, Shiro’s touch feels like a live wire.

“It’s harder than I expected,” Shiro says, eyes staring into the middle distance. “There’s like…I can feel something inside there.”

“That would be my kid,” Keith says. “The human being I’m growing?”

“No, I know, I just thought you’d be…squishier.”

_I’m plenty squishy, you should see my ass_ , Keith wants to say, and then stops because telling Shiro his ass is fatter will actually kill him from mortification. He’s ready to not always feel so embarrassed and hyper-aware of his body. It doesn’t even feel like his body, most of the time, especially now that he’s not riding.

Shiro moves his hand around, over the swell of Keith’s t-shirt. “I’m not really feeling anything.”

“She’s not kicking now.” Keith swallows his weirdness and pokes his belly. “Wake up, kiddo. Time to dance.”

“Don’t force her,” Shiro says, totally affronted.

“Oh relax, if she does it when I’m trying to sleep she can wake up and do it now. Come on, wake up,” he says, poking all over.

There’s a quick jolt, and Keith grabs Shiro’s hand and zeroes it in on the spot. “There we go,” Keith says, heart going soft and fragile. “Good girl.”

Shiro’s face slackens, like all his thoughts have exited his head. “Oh wow,” he says, as Keith’s daughter kicks her little feet. “Keith, that’s…that’s…breathtaking.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“What does it feel like? On the inside?”

“Same as the outside,” he says with a shrug. That’s not quite right, but he’s not sure he could articulate it to Shiro; that physically it feels the same, but nobody who’s not him can feel the rush of joy in his heart each time, that she’s still here and he hasn’t killed her and she’s saying hi. It’s already the most powerful bond he’s ever had with someone else and she’s not even here yet.

Shiro finally takes his hand off, once she stops kicking. Keith feels weirdly bereft afterwards; not for Shiro’s hand, necessarily, but for someone’s hand. Someone’s touch.

His brain calls up images of warm brown skin, blue eyes, soft, sleepy voice.

“Keith,” Shiro says, still standing over him with a smile. “This is going to be amazing.”

“Yep,” he says, shaking off the thoughts. “Sure is.”

 

* * *

 

 

The next visit to the Holt house, in the bright cold of early January, is much less dramatic than the first. Nobody is drunk, Mrs. Holt makes tacos, Matt’s working late so it’s just the four of them. Pidge goes on a spectacular rant about a coding problem from one of her clients that Keith just smiles and nods along to, having no idea how to respond to the technobabble (the Holt parents know exactly what she’s talking about and ask lots of detailed questions, so Keith’s assumption that he’s the dumbest in the room is unfortunately correct). Still, it’s nice, to have somewhere to go – people to talk to, good food to eat. Company to stave off the loneliness and the wandering, desperate thoughts.

The only real difference is that now, Keith sees what Pidge meant when she said her mother was ‘very emotional’ about pregnancy.

“Okay, Katie, time for the picture!” She pulls a nice Canon camera from the kitchen and Pidge starts groaning like she’s been stabbed.

“Mom, oh my God, why do we always do this after we eat, I’m ten times more bloated after we eat.”

“You hardly eat all day – no, hun, I’ve seen you when you work, snacking does not count as a meal – so forgive me if I want to feed you as soon as you come in the door to keep you and the baby from starving!”

“We’re not starving! I had a salad yesterday for lunch!”

“Ranch dressing on lettuce is not a salad, it’s a sandwich without the bread!”

Mr. Holt bursts out laughing, and it forces a smile from Pidge. She gets up out of her chair and walks over to a spot on the wall, familiar in her motions like this is a route she takes often. She holds up a small whiteboard, scrawls the words ’22 Weeks’ on it, and holds it in front of her like a convict taking a mug shot.

“Katie,” Mrs. Holt says, fiddling with the camera. Pidge makes a face at Keith, who snaps a quick picture on his phone.

She finally turns to the side, holding the whiteboard up by her chest. She gives a weird, tiny smile at her mother with the camera. It strikes Keith, once again, as odd. Pidge is pregnant at nineteen, and her parents are beyond supportive. He hasn’t heard a disparaging remark the entire time; no sly ‘throwing your future away’ or ‘you’re so _young_ ’ or anything he thought they might say. Maybe Keith’s been watching too much ‘Garrison Varsity’; maybe teenage pregnancy isn’t as scandalous as it used to be.

“Keith, you’re doing a photoset, right?” Mrs. Holt says, and Keith jumps out of his skin.

“Uhhhh…”

“No, he’s not,” Pidge chirps. “He hasn’t taken a single photo of himself while pregnant.”

“Well, that won’t do! Keith, get up here.”

Keith is gripped by the violent urge to flee to Mexico. “Uh, umm…Mrs. Holt…”

“ _Colleen_ , dear, we’ve been over this. You have to document this! It’s going to be over before you know it and you’ll want pictures to remember it!”

Keith has as little desire to take pictures while he’s pregnant as he does to have his leg hair pulled out with duct tape. Mr. Holt is wisely saying nothing, humming off tune while drinking a beer, and Pidge has a burning, wide-eyed look on her face that screams, _If I have to do this, so do you._

“Keith,” Mrs. Holt says, and he turns to her. “You might want this, later. You might find that these are actually happy memories, and you’re glad you have some way to remember them.”

She smiles at him, and Keith is struck by it. Like she knows that he didn’t plan this and he’s all alone. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if Pidge told her or she figured it out. He’s totally helpless in the face of this kind, stalwart woman, who’s telling him things he didn’t know he needed to hear.

He nods.

Mrs. Holt beams, maneuvers him into position. Pidge hands him the whiteboard after erasing the ‘22’ and writing ’20’. He awkwardly turns to the side, and immediately wants to turn back front so no one can see his swollen belly. Shit, no wonder he hasn’t been photographed while pregnant.

“Keith, we can’t see anything under your sweater,” Mrs. Holt says.

“Pulling a Pidge, I see,” says the aforementioned Pidge. Keith does the salute from ‘Spaceballs’ at her, and she responds with the ‘Friends’ fuck you. They are definitely not ready to be parents.

“Keith.”

He sighs and pulls off his heavy hoodie, revealing his very-thin, decidedly not-paternity t-shirt. It clings to the curve of his belly, which has moved out of ‘bloated’ territory and fully into ‘baby bump’. Mrs. Holt coos and Keith’s face burns.

“Oh, you look so wonderful. You’re both carrying so well. Some people just look like the Michelin Man. Alright, turn and smile!”

Keith’s sure his face looks like a grimace, but Mrs. Holt gives him a thumb’s up and Pidge smiles, no condescension or teasing at all. Keith shimmies back into his sweatshirt and feels the panic in his chest ease as soon as he’s covered again.

“Shall we have a quick game of Uno?” Mr. Holt says.

“Always,” Keith replies.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets the picture next week when he’s back again for dinner. Mrs. Holt (“ _Colleen,_ Keith”) had it printed. He thinks he looks awful; pale, bloated, with terrible jeans and a cringing, petrified smile. On the back she’s painstakingly written ‘Keith – 20 weeks’ and the date.

A big part of him wants to throw it out as soon as he gets home. He never wants to relive this. And no kid would ever ask about when their parent was pregnant with them. It’s too awkward; Keith sure as fuck wouldn’t.

He sits down with a grunt and the silent apartment makes him confront the truth.

He would. If he could see a picture of his mother pregnant – if he could see the tangible proof that he came from someone, that he has a lineage and he’s not dropped out of the sky – maybe he’d feel a little less unmoored. He’d feel like a part of a unit, even if that unit isn’t there anymore. He’d know, at one point, he’d belonged somewhere.

He grabs an old shoebox and puts the picture in there. And every week, when Mrs. Holt takes a new photo and gives him last week’s, he puts that one in there too.

 

* * *

 

 

So the pregnancy continues. And Keith finds himself wishing for when he was small enough to hide under a sweatshirt. Dr. Rosenthal reminds him that it’s a good thing, that the baby is growing like she’s supposed to. There’s no judgment in her voice, like she knows this is a tough time for Keith and he’s never going to be one of those parents posting ecstatic bump pics on Facebook. He feels guilty, like he promised the baby she could live in him and yet he doesn’t want her to grow – he’s happy she’s healthy, really, it’s just –

He’s never been this weak before. He loses his breath when he bends down to look at a bike, he gets dizzy when he stands up too fast, his lungs feel compressed and he is always desperate for a nap. He nods off on the bus to work and almost sleeps through his stop about ten times. He’s never had a body that had to be treated this delicately. He’s a motorcycle driver; he’s always had a body that could be thrown into motion at any moment, used as a tool just like a wrench, that could get dirty and thrown into a toolbox and dropped on the floor and get dusted off and used again. He can’t do that now. He’s fragile. _She’s_ fragile.

Except, that’s not really what bothers him. It’s annoying, yeah, like it’s annoying that people assume he’s totally helpless, and suddenly he’s the one getting seats on the bus and having strangers ask him if he wants a chair. He’s frustrated, and a bit humiliated, but that’s not what really eats at him, what makes him want to hide under a blanket until he’s got a baby and a skinny body again and never let anyone see him like this. He doesn’t know, until one day when he’s at the gas station by work and two guys come in, cracking up and laughing. They’re picking up beer, talking about a party they’re going to tonight, how awesome it’ll be to see everyone again. Keith’s skulking by the frozen dinners and crappy gas station salads, trying to pick out the least shitty of the healthy options, and he can see the way they touch, the way one’s pinky catches on the other’s, the casualness of their proximity to each other. One of them, the taller one, sees Keith in his motorcycle jacket and freezes. Not much, just enough. It’s the same thing Keith does when he’s at McFadden’s and sees someone he thinks could figure him out, someone from work. Then the guy’s eyes catch on the pronounced swell of Keith’s belly under his black t-shirt and his posture loosens. He flashes a grin at Keith and goes back to looking at the beer. The whole interaction takes maybe ten seconds, and this guy knows everything he needs to know about Keith. Face burning, tears gathering, Keith grabs the first salad he sees and all but runs to the cash register. It’s not the awkwardness, or the fragility, or the weakness that bothers him about being visibly pregnant.

It’s that, for the first time in his life, he’s visibly gay.

Now that he’s realized, he sees it everywhere: the grandmothers who don’t school their expression in time, the moms at the grocery store who stare a little too long, the lady at the free clinic where Keith gets tested who gives him a really big smile, where before she’d look at him with scrutiny. He’s always been out but he’s never been _out_ – never been the type to wear rainbow flags and tight shirts and talk like the guys on Queer Eye. He’s got nothing wrong with that, fucked enough guys like that, it’s just not him.

Except now, it is. Now everyone can tell with one look that Keith got fucked in the ass by another man. His whole self-image has to be shifted. And there’s a part of Keith that’s _dying_ over it.

He says as much to Pidge one night, in fragmented, jerky sentences. She’s still got the controller for Mario Kart in her lap but one hand is on her belly. She’s technically smaller than Keith, he knows that from Mrs. Holt’s measurements, but she’s just so tiny that it looks absolutely huge on her, taking up her entire torso. She nods, rubbing her belly in small circles, patiently listening to Keith with soft understanding on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “That really sucks.”

He nods.

“I kind of get it.”

“Yeah?” He figured she did.

“Yeah. People want to treat me like a girl now."

He frowns. "But men have babies...I'm having a baby..."

She shakes her head. "I don't know how to explain it," she says. "It doesn't make any sense. But it's like people see me and they see I'm where I'm supposed to be. We were having drinks with my dad's Air Force commanders. And one of them saw me like this and he...he  _nodded_. Like he's glad that I got knocked up, so I'd stop dressing so weird and cutting my hair so short. I think...now this gives people permission to see me like they always wanted to see me. Just a little girl."

Her entire speech floors him; even more so the quiet, lost way that she says it. He remembers being unsure when he met her, asking for pronouns. She dresses so androgynously, and she goes by Pidge instead of Katie; those aren’t coincidences, they’re choices from someone who likes her own fashion, her own ambiguity. And that's all been taken away from her now, by society and all of its bullshit rules.

He draws her in for a hug, and it’s so awkward with their bellies bumping against each other that they both laugh, and maybe cry a little. Keith can’t tell.

“We’re so fucked," she says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, we’re totally prepared,” Keith says. “Neither of us have any actual maternity wear and we’ve got enough mental health issues to kill a cow.”

“Kill a cow, the fuck does that mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

_I’ve got you,_ is what he thinks, but it’s too sappy to say out loud. _I don’t have much, but I’ve got you. I couldn’t do this without you._

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t think he needs to.

He’s also got Shiro and Adam, who have decided to kick Keith’s parenthood preparations into high gear. Every weekend Keith and Shiro go out to thrift stores and come back with cheap baby furniture; a changing table, a crib, a car seat, a high chair. Sometimes Keith wins and purchases the cheapest thing he can find; sometimes Shiro wins and purchases the more expensive model while Keith’s in the bathroom. It’s a game, one that Keith doesn’t mind losing to see the joy on Shiro’s face. Afterwards, they (read: Shiro) haul their new spoils home, set them up, order pizza and watch football and talk shit. Keith loves it; it’s done a lot to calm his new baby anxiety, to see the little nursery coming together, one mismatched piece of furniture at a time.

(Adam is the real rockstar, though, because he does what Shiro really can’t do: take Keith paternity clothes shopping and buy practical stuff like diapers and sleepers and bibs. “Well, you won’t let us have a baby shower,” is all he says when Keith tries to protest.)

So nothing is okay, and everything’s okay. There’s one missing piece to the equation, and Keith’s gotten very good at ignoring it. He goes to work and goes to the doctor’s and goes to Pidge’s and the Holt’s and Shiro and Adam’s and keeps himself moving and busy. He’s got a lot on his plate; he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to raise a baby, he doesn’t have much time for anything else.

But that’s only during the day. At night, things are quiet. He lays in his windowless room on his creaky bed, tossing and turning because he can’t fucking get comfortable, and he blinks gritty eyes at the dark room and just _wants_. He wants warm arms, and he wants someone to get him a glass of water, and he wants someone to tell him it’s gonna be okay, and someone to hold him up cause he’s getting exhausted doing it all himself. And he doesn’t want just anyone, he wants _Lance._ He misses Lance.

Which is the silliest thing he’s ever heard. How can you miss something that was never yours?

 

* * *

 

 

“So, when’s the big day?”

Keith looks slowly up at Prorok, who’s standing over Keith’s work station with a horrible, too-bright grin.

“What big day?”

“You know, the birth! The finale!”

“May 4th,” Keith says shortly.

“Well, how about that! How fun! A spring baby! Won’t that be great?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you have any names picked out?”

“No.”

“But it’s coming up so soon!”

“Like, fourteen weeks. It’s not crunch time. Why do you care, anyway?”

He’s trying not to raise his voice and call the attention of the whole garage, but it’s no use; they’re all looking at him anyway. They do that a lot, lately. He was having a great time ignoring them, taking apart a Honda engine on his work table. It’s about the only thing he can still do just as well as before, since he doesn’t need to bend over and his hands are still totally un-pregnant.

Prorok just smiles again. “I just wanted to check in. Our very own pregnant coworker, it’s very exciting. And you’re still working, even with all your…changes. It’s very inspiring.”

“I’m not a cripple. Baby makes me slow, not stupid. What’s your excuse?”

Ranveig ‘ooooohs’ in the corner, but Prorok stays grinning like a hyena. “I just think it’s very brave, what you’re doing. I could never let my body and my life go like that. And to keep working, just to keep food on the table? It’s inspiring, really. I know this job can’t be easy, as soft as you are now.”

There are twenty things Keith wants to do when he hears that. He wants to stand up. He wants to deck Prorok right in his teeth. He wants to put him in the hospital and then say, “Who’s soft now?” He wants to tell him that this, growing a brand-new human, is harder than anything fatass Prorok has ever done in his life.

He doesn’t do anything. Because Prorok’s right - he is soft, and he has let himself go, and he can’t get in a fight right now, and he can’t even stand up because he doesn’t want them to look at his belly, conveniently hidden under the table, and have more ammunition.

So he glares. It’s all he can do.

“Fuck you, asshole,” he grunts.

Prorok smiles. “All bark, no bite.” He starts to walk away. “Better hope that baby gets its balls from the other father,” he calls over his shoulder.

Everyone in the garage still watches Keith, seeing what he’s gonna do. He flinches away from their eyes, hunches over the engine with his screwdriver in his hands. Blinks away the tears. If he cries in here, he’s done for.

He waits until lunch, finds the biggest stall, and gives himself five minutes to silently cry his eyes out.

After that, he’s back on the floor.

 

* * *

 

 

End of February and the weather is finally warm enough to make Keith’s sweatshirt uncomfortable. He had a doctor’s appointment in the morning and meant to go back to work in the afternoon, save up as much sick time as he can. But after the ultrasound and the bloodwork, he’s got no energy to fuss with bikes. He texts Sendak to say he’s taking the rest of the day and buses over to Pidge’s. She never has class on Wednesdays; he finds her half-heartedly poking at a string of bad code, one hand in a bag of Cheetos. She’s all too happy to ditch the project and play a brutal round of _Halo_ with him. The sun is shining through her windows, warming his bare feet where they rest on the carpet.

“Fuck, I wish I could ride,” Keith says.

“I know. You lose more street cred every day that you don’t wear leather and ride your iron horse. It’s hard.”

“How do you know it’s called an ‘iron horse’?”

She gives him her most withering look.

“It’s just so _nice_ out,” he says again.

“This apartment has a pool. Just FYI.”

“A swimming pool?”

“Yep. I’ve never used it.” She pauses, looks at him. “We could swim. If you want.”

He looks over at her, eyebrows raised. They’re both thinking the same thing, he can tell. It’s a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, soft fluffy clouds in the sky. And swimming sounds absolutely amazing.

The problem isn’t the swimming pool. The problem is that they can’t wear hoodies in the swimming pool.

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Keith says, which is a flimsy excuse and he knows it.

“Mine’s too small now anyway,” Pidge says ruefully. “I was just gonna wear my shorts and t-shirt. You could too.”

Keith looks down at himself, chewing his lip. He’s just so…round. He looks like a butterball turkey. Even keeping a t-shirt on won’t help anything. All he does is hide his body.

That thought completely depresses him.

“No one else will be there,” he says. “It’s the middle of the work day.”

“That’s true.” Pidge is reluctant too, he can see it in the way she curls her arms over her chest.

He looks at her and drags up a grin. It falls flat, he can tell. Pidge smiles back anyway, cause she’s a real G like that.

“Lead the way,” he says.

The sunshine feels so fucking good once they step onto the pool deck. Fat orange trees heavy with fruit line the edge of the pool, providing shade to white Adirondack chairs. Keith looks around at the turquoise-blue pool and sandy white deck and feels like he’s molting, sloughing off the dead skin and dirt of this long, shitty winter. He doesn’t realize until this moment how much he’s been hiding from the world, how much he missed sunshine and sky and anything that isn’t closed doors and heavy sweaters. It feels weird to have his belly out this, pushing out proudly under his t-shirt, and a part of him feels scared, like he has every day since he’s been showing. But scared of what? That someone will look at him and immediately know, “Oh, this guy fucked Lance McClain without a condom!”

But of course that’s not what’ll happen. Nobody knows, and nobody will ever know, and something about that is so freeing. Maybe there’s no point in hiding anymore.

Keith and Pidge make a pretty weird pair – two pregnant people in ratty t-shirts and basketball shorts – but there’s no one to see them except an older woman lounging on the far end of the pool with her headphones in. She looks dead to the world, doesn’t even look at them, and Keith and Pidge slowly unfreeze from their meerkat-like stillness, waiting for her reaction. When there is none, they look at each other.

“Okay, then,” Pidge says, and drops her towel on a chair.

Keith throws his towel over and sticks a foot in. He’s normally a dive-in kind of guy, but at the moment that feels very wrong. He hisses at the initial chill but soon gets over the shock and realizes that the water is really very warm, out here baking in the sun. He sinks deeper, flinching a little when the water hits his belly, and finally ducks his head underwater and –

The rush of water fills his ears. After that is silence. He opens his eyes, seeing nothing but a blurred blue landscape, the fuzzy outline of Pidge’s legs.

Oh, God, this feels amazing.

He resurfaces, chlorine stinging in his eyes, fresh and clean and laughing, the scar tissue over his heart throbbing just a bit less. Pidge is next to him with glasses still on, wet bangs plastered to her forehead and neck, grinning hugely. Jesus, he didn’t realize how much they needed this.

They spend a glorious afternoon at the pool. Most of the time Keith just floats, marveling in how good it feels to be weightless. The buoyancy of the water takes the weight of his belly off his body, and he feels himself able to properly stretch out his hips and legs and back for the first time in months. Pidge splashes around, shirt billowing out over her belly, brown eyelashes glued into triangles. Her baby wakes up and starts kicking, roused by the action, and she pulls Keith over to feel, genuine excitement on her face. They haul themselves out to sprawl like beached whales on the Adirondacks, and Keith shoves down on his self-consciousness as much as he can, because they fucking need this. At one point, when Pidge is tapping on her phone and the lady with the headphones hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, he pulls up the wet fabric of his shirt so his belly can get some sun. His skin is so pale he looks like a knockoff Edward Cullen, and there’s the beginning of spidery stretch marks running from his sides up to the crest of his belly. He ignores all that, just this once, and smooths his palms over his stomach, willing the baby to get some sunlight so she can grow big and strong. Pidge catches him in the act and gives him a fond, amused look but says nothing. Keith feels his skin warmed by the sun for the first time in months and melts back into the chair. It’s the best day he’s had in months.

That’s why it hurts even more, when it all goes to shit later that night.

Filled with actual energy for the first time in months, Keith and Pidge go to the local burger place for dinner. There’s a silent agreement between them that they can’t stay in the apartment and order in today. It’s not the day for hiding. Keith enjoys himself; he gets the healthiest-looking burger he can find and a side salad instead of fries, but it’s still a burger and it’s fucking delicious. Pidge makes a passing comment about not knowing how motorcycles work and Keith is off to the races, breaking down how a bike engine runs and where the gas goes and all the awesome shit about bikes. Pidge is more into software than hardware, but she follows along easily enough. When their waitress comes and Keith beats Pidge to the check, he’s feeling pretty good.

The waitress takes his card and grins.

“I was you guys’ age when I had my first one!”

Keith and Pidge both stiffen, infinitesimally. Keith smiles, but his cheeks hurt with the motion.

“I’m so glad, of course, I love that kid, but I was so scared, I would’ve given anything to have a friend like you guys, you know, someone to do it with! Or at least, someone to tell me it only takes once, you’re not invincible, right?”

She gives a conspiratorial wink.

“But he’s a sweetheart – the baby, not the father so much – and then I found a new man and got me two more and he loves Ben like his own and I’m babbling, so sorry dears, let me get your check!”

She takes Keith’s card and dashes away, leaving them both sitting in a wash of awkward silence. Pidge glowers at her milkshake and Keith fiddles with his napkin. He’s got simultaneous urges to text Lance and drink himself stupid. So he’s shit outta luck on both counts.

Back at Pidge’s they start on ‘Skyward Sword’. Keith’s pleasantly full, the game is interesting, he’s had a great day. The waitress’s comment doesn’t bother him after about fifteen minutes – she’s _right_ , after all, and she wasn’t mean or judgmental – but it’s clearly eating at Pidge. There’s a storm cloud over her, sinking her down as she sits sullenly and plays with listless fingers. She’s barely said a word since the restaurant.

“Dude,” he finally says, as she turns to him. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, you look like someone pissed on your computers.”

“They’d die first,” she says with a smile. But it doesn’t hold, slips off her face and never reaches her eyes.

“Pidge, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I told you.”

“Was it what the waitress said?”

She exhales, and Keith knows her well enough now to know he’s got it. Pidge can’t hide her emotions; they shine out of her, in everything she does.

“She was just being weird, she wasn’t mean or anything. She didn’t call us tramps or anything.”

“I know. I’m fine.”

“It’s like…most people don’t say anything, so maybe it wasn’t a bad thing she said something. I mean, we’re going to get people like that from here on out, right?”

Pidge’s face falls.

“Pidge,” he says, baffled. “It’s okay. She wasn’t mean, she wasn’t judging. She was just telling the truth.”

“I didn’t want it,” Pidge mumbles.

“Uh, yeah, I didn’t either, but that’s what happens when you have sex without a condom. That’s how bodies work.”

“It’s not…that’s…it wasn’t…I didn’t mean for it to happen, I didn’t want it.”

“No judgement! I did it too! Shit, it happens to a whole bunch of people, forgetting a condom isn’t a capital offence – “

“ _I didn’t want it!_ ”

Her voice stops him in his tracks.

The evening twilight settles on her – trembling where she sits, face broken open. Eyes wide, wide, wide.

Keith feels, very suddenly and very forcefully, that they’re upon something huge – that he’s fumbling in the dark, on the edge of a gaping cliff.

“What do you mean?” He asks softly.

She doesn’t answer. Tears well up in her eyes, magnified by her glasses. Keith’s heart is pounding in sudden terror and he has no idea why.

“Pidge,” he tries again.

“I didn’t want it,” she says. Her voice wobbles. “I didn’t know it was happening. I didn’t know until it was almost done. I didn’t know, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t talk, I was so _sick_ , I didn’t know, I didn’t want it.”

_No_ , Keith thinks. _No, no, not that, not that, not her. No._

Even though it’s warm Pidge grabs the nearest blanket and wraps it all around her body, cocooning herself. Her hair dried funny from the pool and it sticks up like a little bird’s. Tears spill down her cheeks and she does nothing, like she doesn’t even know they’re falling.

“He was in the robotics club,” she says. Keith’s stomach is hot with dread. “Freshman year, we were in the club together. I lived on campus, we were in the same dorm. He was my _friend_ , we hung out, we built cool robots. I came out at the end of the year and he seemed weird about it but I figured he had prejudices and he’d get _over_ them, you know? He was my _friend,_ and, and – “

She can’t stop, words flowing like blood. “I came back for sophomore year, in August, we came back early for a tournament, and I was so happy to _see_ him, and he was so happy too, I was _excited_. And we go to this friend’s party for the start of the year and I get so drunk, because I’m with my friends, and I’m happy, and he takes me upstairs, says he’ll find me a place to sleep and he’ll take care of me, and I lay down on this nice bed and I’m so tired, and I wake up and it fucking hurts and my legs are sticky and he’s got my face in the pillow saying I’m not really a lesbian, he loves me and I should be with him…”

Keith’s face is a picture of horror, he can feel his mouth open and his skin ashen, and poor Pidge is sobbing into the blanket.

“I told him I had to go to the bathroom and he let me and I ran out, and I went home and I didn’t know what happened, like, I don’t remember? I was drunk, I felt so dirty, I didn’t tell anyone for days, I pretended to be sick and I stayed at my parents’ and they asked me why I was skipping so much class. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t want them to judge me, so I just said I was sick and I tried to go back to class and act like nothing happened. But I felt so _gross_ , all the time, and _wrong_ , and I couldn’t look at him and I saw him all the time cause he was my _friend_ , and I started to think something worse had happened, and it was like a month before I told my brother and he told our parents and they called the police – “

Keith wants desperately to hold her, comfort her from where she’s shaking apart, but when he inches closer she folds in on herself, shrugging the blankets over her shoulders. She doesn’t look at him, eyes glued to her lap, tears falling on the mound of her blanket-covered stomach.

“And God, it was so much, fuck, it was a nightmare, you don’t even know. The police asked why it took so long and why couldn’t I remember and one dickhead basically said it was my fault for being so drunk and one didn’t believe me once he found out I was a lesbian. And the school clearly didn’t believe me, cause he denied it. I dropped out, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t live life with him there, always there watching me, and then I started feeling sick and I went to the doctor and that – that – that _monster_ didn’t wear a condom and turns out I’m fucking _pregnant_ –

“And now,” she sobs, “and now I’m 19, and I’m having a baby, and I don’t know if I ever wanted kids in the first place, and no woman is ever going to love me cause I’ve got a baby, and I left my school that I love to go to school online, and _he’s_ still there, and everyone’s going to look at me and think I’m a whore and an idiot and straight and I didn’t want it, I didn’t want it, I didn’t want it – “

“Pidge,” Keith says, “Pidge, please, can I give you a hug – “

She nods breathlessly and he pulls her in, blanket and all, holds her as tight as he can, even though his mind is screaming _Don’t hold her neck, not too tight, don’t be like him._ She burrows close after a minute and sniffles into his chest, cries for what feels like long hours, like a dam that’s been clogged for too long and needs to be drained. Keith doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to respond to pain of this magnitude. Any words he says will be Band-Aids on an amputated limb. So he holds her, and strokes her hair, and cries with her.

After a long while her gulping sobs turn into quiet sniffles, little hitches of breath. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t think it’s his place, but he’s so curious. And one of her hands has snuck back down under the blanket, the outline of it pressed against her belly, and Keith thinks maybe she might answer.

“Why didn’t you…you could’ve. You, like, really could’ve.”

“I know I could’ve.” Her voice is thick with the aftermath of tears, nose clogged. “I’m fucking textbook for necessary abortions, the most right-wing, evangelical asshole of all time couldn’t deny me an abortion. And I wanted one. At first, when I first found out, I, like…I wanted to rip it out of me myself. The thought made me sick. My parents supported it, they wanted me to get one, they were like, “You don’t have to do this.” But, I…”

She scrubs her hands over her ruddy face. “Fuck, Keith, I don’t know. I do not know. But it was a feeling. Like…this might be my only chance to get something good out of this. He took away my safety and my sanity and my virginity and my education and my _life_ , but he didn’t take away my ability to love. My parents, they were so amazing, they still are, they were so strong and fought for me and told me whatever I wanted they backed up and they’ll be amazing grandparents and I thought, maybe I’ll be a good mom. That kind of mom. And I can love them and teach them stuff and raise someone who’s kind and has good morals and maybe fights for the little people and…it’s dumb. Like, it’s so idiotic to have the baby. It’s completely illogical, it’s a terrible life choice, I would never advise somebody to do this. Most of the time I’m so miserable and ashamed and I still can’t do it. I still don’t want to. I want the baby. I just do. It outweighed all the innumerable bad reasons. And…so I did.”

She exhales, blinks up at him with her red-rimmed eyes. They’ve both aged a hundred years since the burger shop. Keith thinks of the first time he asked her why, all those months ago. _No good reason…just not a good enough reason not to._ The same way Keith knew, despite every sign in the universe telling him not to, that he wanted to. That he’d rather take this journey, come what may, than close the book and never know. For Lance or himself, whatever the reason; he wanted to take that chance.

And Pidge, fuck…Pidge made that choice, with all of that pain, and that rage, and fear, and humiliation. She took that chance, and sat there now, rubbing her red nose and looking defiantly at Keith.

“You’re already an amazing mom,” he says honestly.

She blinks, letting his words sink in, and then grins like the sun. Her cheeks go blotchy with blush and Keith’s heart melts.

“I love you, Pidge,” he says.

“I love you too,” she replies.

Wordlessly, she inches her hand across the couch. Keith grabs it tight, holds on.

The streetlights shine through her windows. Keith is weirdly proud of both of them, for taking this chance.

He just prays that they won't lose themselves along the way.

 

* * *

 

 

_Welcome Home: Lance McClain Spotted at LAX!_ By Nyma Van Dyne

_Reunited and it feels so good! After a looong five months of filming (but who’s counting?) Lance McClain has returned to Los Angeles. He was spotted last night at LAX, looking dead on his feet (but still handsome in gray Adidas sweats and a Tom Ford carryall.)_

_He’s been in Macon, Georgia since November, filming his upcoming thriller, ‘Edge of a Knife’, with co-star (and rumored real-life love interest) Allura Altea. Inside sources tell us the movie was plagued with problems, from the director and screenwriter clashing to injuries from the stunt crew to massive copyright concerns from the author of the original book from which the movie is adapted. All of the stars have been a little frustrated at the delay (star Rolo Harrison went on a massive Twitter rant about the handling of the project), but McClain and Altea kept their heads up and never complained once. Perhaps their budding romance made the long months not feel so long?_

_Whatever the reason, we’re glad to have Lance back, and we’re sure he feels the same! We can’t wait to see our favorite Cuban snack on the red carpets again soon! ‘Edge of a Knife’ will (hopefully) hit theaters this August._


	3. Part Three

Alright, so real talk, Georgia wasn’t that bad. The barbecue was _amazing_ and the people were really nice and Lance really loved going to sleep where it was quiet and he could see the stars. If he had to spend five damn months on set, he got pretty lucky with Macon.

But still.

He is _so_ happy to be back in LA.

The weather. The traffic. The people. The bodegas where he can walk in and speak rapid-fire Spanish to a man he’s known since birth. The beach, just a few miles away, gorgeous in March. Fuck, he even missed the _smog._

He’s never loved this stupid city more.

His mother practically kidnaps him when he first touches down; what was supposed to be a quick reconnecting dinner turns into five days at his parents’ home. His mom’s never been separated from him for this long, cause he’s never had a shoot last this long. She’s more protective of him than any of his siblings, a deadly combination of being the youngest of four and also a working adult since he got cast in ‘Garrison Varsity’ at 14. He lets her fuss over him for five days (because it genuinely feels _epic_ to lay in bed until noon and eat arroz con pollo and garlic knots for every meal), but he finally extricates himself and heads home. He’s got to resettle into his life again.

Principal shooting is done, but there’s still a ton of work to do. Promo for the stupid movie. New and old advertising contracts. Talking with Hunk about new scripts, next steps (maybe getting back into TV, for something steady?) Meetings about all of the above.

He’s thrilled when Hunk tells him they’ve cleared a day for him to volunteer at St. Cecilia’s. Sometimes they send a pap along, get some shots of him volunteering to strategically release whenever his Twitter mentions are getting low. Today he’s had a ton of press so he goes alone, which Lance vastly prefers. It’s not like he works on the floor like he used to; he got mobbed one too many times for the hospital to allow that. Nowadays he works in the back office doing data entry, super boring stuff. It’s cool; he still gets to volunteer, still feels like a normal human, plus he loves the admin staff. They’ve all known him for years, and they have no qualms about roasting him no matter how famous he may be. For a group of old white ladies, they are _savage_.

He gets off at five – like a regular working stiff! – and is in desperate need of some coffee, because Hunk said they’re going to go over potential scripts tonight and he needs some energy from happy bean juice. There are no Starbucks anywhere in the area, so he ducks into a gas station for whatever cold brew/canned coffee/whatever they have. While he browses through their iced coffee selection, he takes a well-deserved self-roast. Because he was honestly such a diva just now that he mentally complained about not being able to find an adequate Starbucks. Move over, Kim, Lance McClain is officially the new LA stereotype. But like seriously, how are there _no_ Starbucks around here? He thought it was legally required by the city of LA to be only fifty feet away from a Starbucks at any given moment.

Wow, that dude’s hair looks _really_ familiar.

Lance turns, tilts his head, and oh shit, that’s Keith, poking listlessly at pre-packaged salads, all purple eyes and thick black hair, just like in Lance’s memories.

Keith turns to look at a different salad and he’s – he’s pregnant. That’s – that’s a baby belly, right there under his oversized black hoodie.

Lance’s heart skips a beat. And then several.

Keith looks up, his eyes tired, and sees Lance. His whole body snaps to attention. His eyes go wide, his face freezes, it’s like he’s seen a fucking ghost. He takes a step towards the door, like he’s going to run away, and _no._ Fuck that.

“Keith,” Lance calls.

Keith immediately snaps his head around, checking to make sure nobody heard, which is probably a good idea because this is very dramatic and would be on the front page of every tabloid but Lance literally doesn’t care that he’s Lance McClain right now. He walks over to Keith, who stands frozen. He’s pregnant. Oh Jesus, he’s pregnant. They didn’t wear a condom. Lance remembers that, like it happened five minutes ago, like they’re still in that hotel room. He didn’t wear a condom.

“Keith,” he says, when he’s closer.

“Shut up,” he hisses.

“No, you shut up, what is happening? Why are you pregnant? Is that my baby?”

Keith’s hand whips out like a snake, grabbing Lance’s arm and tugging, hard. He hauls them to the bathroom, around the corner from the fridges stacked with Gatorade and Red Bull. He pushes Lance into the single toilet bathroom and locks the door behind them.

“We’re not doing this in a fucking gas station, are you crazy?”

“Doing what? Talking about you being _pregnant_? Like, really pregnant? Is it mine? Did I get you _pregnant_?”

“What are you _doing_ here,” Keith moans. “What are you doing in this gas station, what are you doing on this side of town, _fuck_ – “

“Keith!” Lance doesn’t recognize his own voice; it rips from him. “Tell me the truth, _please_!”

Keith stares at him, wildly, like he’s stuck in the choice between fight or flight. His belly pushes at the pocket of his hoodie. For an insane moment, Lance thinks it’s reaching for him.

“Shit,” Keith says. “Uh. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, it’s yours.”

Lance’s heart thumps. _Oh. Oh, God._ He knew, but now he _knows._

How weird, to be in the exact moment when your life changes irrevocably.

 The initial rush of emotions is so strong, and Lance feels like his brain is awash in a sea of white static, trying to recalibrate. He stares at Keith for an embarrassing length of time, watching his handsome face get redder and redder.

The first emotion to return is bafflement.

“What? Oh, Jesus. What? Were you…when were you going to tell me?”

Keith says nothing, his face twisted.

Lance can’t even compute. “What - how…long has it been? August, that’s like…”

“Twenty-nine weeks,” Keith replies.

“Twenty-nine, that’s – fuck, that’s almost done. That’s – shit, shit, that’s like _here_.”

“Two months.”

“ _Two months?_ Fuck, fuck, oh my God, I’m gonna be a dad in two fucking months – “

“Stop freaking out,” Keith orders. “It’s not tomorrow. Two months. That’s a while.”

“It’s _two months_! Christ on a cracker, oh my God – “

They’re still in a bathroom. That face rises to the fore, suddenly. It smells stale, a bit dirty. They’re locked in a gas station bathroom, Lance and his baby mama.

Keith’s arms are crossed over his chest. His eyes are tired again, and shifty. He’s barely making eye contact. “What are you doing here?” He asks.

“The…the movie’s done. Shooting. We’re done.”

“I know that, what are you doing here? In this gas station?”

“Getting a coffee? Why are you so hung up on that? So you can…so you could _hide_ my _baby_ from me, never tell me?”

Keith ducks his head. His hands make an aborted motion to his belly and stop.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lance says. He’s not sure he wants an answer right now; the worst answer is too awful to contemplate. “Were you ever gonna tell me? You had my number…”

“Can we not do this here?” Keith says. He leans against the sink. “In a bathroom?”

“Where else would we do it?”

“Not in a fucking bathroom!”

Lance blinks, leans back away from Keith’s vitriol. “Okay. Jeez. Where?”

Keith has no answer. He brings a hand up to rub at his eyes. He looks like he’ll fall over at any moment. “My place is closest,” he says. His voice is thick, like he’s about to cry.

“Okay.”

“Can you call a car?”

“It’ll maybe be a bit suspicious, getting a black car to a gas station. Where’s your bike parked?”

Keith huffs. “At home.”

“What, you didn’t ride it today?”

“I can’t ride it,” he says clearly, and Lance’s stomach drops. “I took the bus. So unless you want ‘Lance McClain rides LA 460 Bus’ on People magazine, you’ll call a fucking car.”

“Okay,” Lance whispers. He pulls out his phone and flicks to Uber. He feels like crying. It’s so fucked. It’s so, so fucked.

Keith drops onto the toilet seat. He runs his hands through his hair again, grabbing at the roots. The silence is thick and oppressive.

After five minutes, Lance clears his throat. “It’s here. Uh, we’ll have to be quick.”

Keith nods and gets to his feet. He pulls his hood up over his head. Lance finds sunglasses stuffed in his pocket and puts those on. It’s a terrible disguise; if anyone looks twice, they’ll figure him out.

For a weird moment, he wants to hold Keith’s hand when they head out of the bathroom. He doesn’t. He doesn’t think it’ll go well.

They all but run out of the gas station and throw themselves into the idling car. The driver either doesn’t recognize Lance or doesn’t care; he just asks for the address, which Keith gives, and they drive in silence. Lance can’t stop staring, much as he’s trying to hide it. Keith’s belly is much more obvious when he’s sitting; it takes up his lap, curving outward like a perfect circle. Lance doesn’t want to take his eyes off it. Keith doesn’t notice; he’s looking out the window, sitting stiffly, rigid and unfeeling.

Lance spent one night with Keith, two months texting him, five months pining for him. But he doesn’t know him. They’re strangers to each other. They have no relation to each other besides one night, a handful of texts and some lack of planning. And in two months there’ll be a human in the world made of both of them. God.

Hunk texts him, asking when he’s available tonight, and all Lance can stay is ‘Can’t tonight, call you later.’ The car is taking them to a run-down neighborhood in southeast, making Lance a little nervous. There’s graffiti and busted streetlights and dudes on the block looking shifty. The car pulls up in front of a nice enough house, which makes Lance excited, until Keith doesn’t go to the front door. He goes around the side, to a little cast-iron door tucked down a few stone steps.

“Here?”

“Here,” Keith says. Lance can tell the cloth-covered bundle on the landing is a motorcycle, so yeah, here.

“What, underground? Does it have _windows_?”

“It has windows,” Keith replies. His voice is tight. “It’s a basement apartment, not a prison. Not all of us are rich movie stars.”

Inside, it’s _dark._ It’s small, and it’s dark. The living room/kitchen is a bit cramped, mismatched furniture and a lumpy couch. Keith makes a beeline for the kitchen, dumping his keys on the counter and pulling out a pitcher of water. Lance looks around, a strange sense of displacement filling him. It’s not a bad apartment, but it feels very lonely. There aren’t many personal touches, just a few pictures on the walls too far away to see. The tiny windows let in squares of golden, afternoon light.

Keith drinks water with his back turned. It’s perfectly warm inside here but he doesn’t take his hoodie off. Lance has so much to say and no idea how to say it. He feels like he’s drowning. How do you talk through seven months of a new human life, one that you created but you weren’t ever going to know about?

“How are you?” is what he says.

Keith waits to answer. When he turns around his face is very blank. “Um, okay.”

“Like, healthy?”

“Yeah.”

“The…the baby?”

“Healthy, yeah.”

Fuck, what if the answer had been no? And then, the thought jumps straight into his head and out his mouth – “What is it? Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a girl,” Keith says softly.

“A girl,” Lance repeats, and shit, he’s crying now. Oh, God, a _daughter_.

“Why are you crying?”

“Cause I’m having a _daughter_ , and I didn’t know about it till right now! _Shit_!”

“Don’t be _mad_ about it.”

“How could I not be?” Lance starts pacing, legs carrying him whether he wants to or not. “Fuck, Keith, my whole life just got changed and I didn’t know while you’ve been in this little apartment, like I was gonna have a baby just walking around LA and never know – “

“You don’t need to do anything, I don’t need your money. We’re fine.”

“We’re _fine_ , he says! We’re _fine!_ Oh, my God – “

He turns around, takes a deep breath, clenches his eyes shut. He wants to rant and scream and yell and demand answers. But this isn’t the Keith of his fuzzy memories, with his whip-tight body and hard eyes, straddling a motorcycle across LA. This Keith has a distended belly and slumped shoulders and exhausted eyes. He can’t tell at this Keith, not when he’s carrying Lance’s child and looking like he’s crumbling from the weight of her.

Lance takes a deep breath and sits down on a lumpy couch. It sinks in the middle like quicksand. Keith sits heavily in the other armchair, which has a strange floral pattern. He looks at Lance, face a complete mask. Lance can’t get anything from him.

“What has your family said? About this?” Lance asks.

Keith’s brows crunch together. “Uh. Nothing.”

“Nothing? You haven’t told them? About you being pregnant or about it being mine?”

“Nothing, because I don’t have a family. I never met my dad and my mom gave me up for adoption when I was a toddler. I don’t remember her.”

“So who adopted you?”

“Nobody.” Keith’s face stays hard but his hands tremble at his sides. “I aged out of the foster care system. I have a foster brother, but he doesn’t know it’s yours.”

Lance doesn’t even know where to begin with that. Keith’s…what, an orphan? Abandoned? And he never got adopted? Spent his whole childhood with no real parents? And he didn’t tell the one person he has that it was Lance who knocked him up? Why, because he’s _ashamed_ of Lance? He doesn’t want Lance to be the father? Clearly not, if he didn’t tell Lance and never was going to.

Why didn’t he _tell_ Lance? And why didn’t he abort it? None of this makes sense, none of it explains why someone who seems so miserable and put-out to be having a baby didn’t choose to abort. What is Keith getting out of this, if he didn’t want Lance’s money or fame? Is it the family he never had? Fuck, he can’t think, his head hurts and his heart’s heavy.

Lance gears up to ask one of the many questions he still has, but Keith beats him to it.

“I’m hungry,” he says.

“Hungry? Oh, yeah, okay, hungry. Okay.” Lance pulls out his phone, boots up Uber Eats. “What do you want? We can do Chinese, we can do Mexican, we can – “

“No need.” Keith plants his hands on the arms of his chair and stands up. “I’ve got stir-fry in the freezer.”

“Oh. Okay.” Lance sits there, phone still in hand. Keith pulls out a large pan, fires up a burner. “Uh, do you want help – ?”

“I got it.”

Damn. Lance tires not to feel so stung. It’s just…this guy is pregnant because of Lance. Lance should be feeding him, right? Should be providing for his boyfriend/baby mama, right? He hates just sitting there while Keith pours frozen orange chicken in a pan, so he walks around.

The first place he goes are the pictures, stacked on the narrow strip of wall between the fridge and the hallway. The top one is Keith, baby-faced and sullen, with a handsome black-haired man with a beaming smile. Keith is in a black graduation cap and gown; the guy is in formal dress from the military, but Lance can’t tell which branch.

“Your…foster brother?” He guesses.

Keith nods, poking at the little frozen sauce cubes with his spatula. Lance thinks that’ll be the end of it and his heart sinks a little because shit, Keith must really hate him, when Keith adds,

“Shiro.”

“Shiro?” Lance repeats, immediately committing it to memory. He’s hoarding personal information about Keith like they’re nuggets of gold. Foster brother. Shiro. Got it.

Next picture has Shiro and Keith again – Keith a little older, and Shiro jarringly missing an arm. His shirt sleeve is pinned back, covering the stump of it. There’s a third person in the picture, a handsome brown-skinned man with glasses on the other side of Keith. They’re all in front of a Christmas tree, twinkling lights leaving blurred spots on the film.

“Who’s this?” Lance asks. He might be pushing his luck here, but Keith says,

“Adam. Shiro’s boyfriend.”

“Okay.” Adam. Boyfriend of foster brother. “Shiro is…missing an arm?”

“Lost it in combat. He flew Black Hawks for the Air Force. He was shot down over Afghanistan.”

“Oh my God,” Lance says softly. “That’s awful.”

Keith nods. “But at least he didn’t die.”

Yeah, that’s a victory. Lance has no idea what to say to that. This seems to be a recurring theme of his night.

He looks at the last picture and does a double-take, because Keith’s visibly pregnant in this. He’s wearing a very attractive, tight grey Henley, with his bump curving out underneath the fabric. He’s actually _smiling_ , looking one second away from a laugh, and that might have something to do with the other person in the picture, a short young human with brown hair and massive round glasses, equally pregnant and also laughing. They both look like the original intent was to take a more serious, posed photo but it fell apart before they could get there, leaving just the candid joy on their face.

“Who’s this?” Lance says and tries not to feel jealous of this very close friend of Keith’s who knows him and hangs out with him and takes pictures with him.

“That’s Pidge,” he replies, and his voice is so fond and exasperated that Lance’s heart clenches in misery. He wants Keith to talk about _him_ that way.

“They seem cool,” he says.

“Yeah, she is. We met at the doctor’s office. She’s two weeks ahead of me. In pregnancy.”

“That’s really funny,” Lance says, and shit, where did his conversation skills go? He’s charmed interviewers in every country, how come his responses to Keith sound like the passive-aggressive comments of a suburban soccer mom? “You guys…take pictures together?”

He winces once the words are out of his mouth, and Keith gives him a look as he dumps stir-fry into two bowls. “Sometimes, I guess. Her mom wanted us to do some dumb pose where our bellies touched or some shit. We couldn’t take it, so that’s what came out instead.”

“That’s awesome. I’m really glad you have someone to do this with, a friend, you know?” Which is true; as jealous as he is of everyone who’s been with Keith these last months, he’s glad Keith has people. He’s glad this daughter has people, since he wasn’t there for them.

Keith blushes, a pretty red stain on his face. “Uh…yeah,” he replies, and hands Lance a bowl.

“Thank you,” Lance says sincerely, trying to catch and hold Keith’s eye contact. Keith gives it for about two seconds and then ducks away, plopping back down in the same armchair as before to eat. Lance feels heartache in every fiber of his being, forlorn and lost like he’s been unmoored. He wants to shake Keith, beg him, _Aren’t you hurting? This massive thing, this life-changing thing we did together, aren’t you hurting? Isn’t there anything I can do for you, like one good hug from you could do for me?_

Maybe this is penance for something. Maybe he’s got to atone. Problem is, he’s not sure what he’s atoning for, and he’s only got two months to do it.

When they finish the most awkward meal of Lance’s life (which is saying something – he was sat between Taylor Swift and Kanye West right after the VMA’s, _that_ was a fucking mess), they both sit in silence for minutes. Lance darts his eyes around, having a tough time meeting Keith’s penetrating stare for too long. Keith looks at Lance like he’s trying to x-ray him.

“What are you doing here?” He finally says.

“You keep asking me that,” Lance says, trying to keep his voice light. “It’s like you forget I normally live in LA.”

“I mean, what are you doing in my apartment?”

“You invited me in!”

“You followed me home! You’re still here! You know about the baby, you know she’s healthy, what more do you want?”

“What more do I want?” He repeats in disbelief. “What more do I _want_? That’s my baby that you fucking hid, I want a lot more than _dinner_ and some half-ass answers!”

“Your baby is fine,” Keith grits out. “I’m taking care of her. You can go back to your Hollywood life and leave us alone.”

Lance’s panic spikes so quickly he feels like he might vomit. Leave them alone? Never see Keith, his _baby_ again? “Hell no,” he says. “No way. No, I’m staying right fucking here.”

“What?”

“That’s right,” Lance says, and it feels truer as he says it. “I am not leaving this apartment. I live here now.”

Keith’s face is tight with fury. “You can’t do that.”

“I’m not leaving, so you can try to kick me out and I’ll come back.” It’s insane, he knows it’s insane, but he can’t bring himself to do anything else. He’s already lost Keith once, he looks like he’s going to run away, he’ll leave and never call Lance and he’ll loose them. If he stays right here until they figure something out together, he’ll keep them together, he’ll get a chance to make this right. “I know where you live, buddy, I’ll see you again.”

Keith’s eyes are shooting sparks, fists clenched and body tight. “Asshole,” he spits, and then levers himself up, storms off to a side room and slams the door. The sound echoes through the tiny, dark apartment.

Well, shit.

Lance sits on the couch like a statue, like he’s forgotten how to use his muscles. His heart still hammers a mile a minute, making him queasy from misplaced adrenaline. It’s the first time he’s been alone since he saw Keith in that gas station, hours ago.

The adrenaline catches up to him in waves, realizations hitting him one after the other. Baby. Father. Keith. Seven months. Daughter. Unmarried, not dating, don’t even like each other. His baby mama hates him. He _has_ a baby mama, and he hates Lance. In two months, he’s gonna have a baby with a man who hates him.

He hands his head and cries.

He tries to keep it down, keep Keith from hearing – God, how _embarrassing_ would that be – but he can’t really help it. It’s necessary, a catharsis that’s neither happy nor sad, just _overwhelmed_. Like monsoon season, when the rains come through and drown everything in a rush of water, making oil shine rainbows on the streets and clearing out the pollen and dust and smug, a miasma of shit before the clean petrichor of afterwards – that’s Lance, sobbing on Keith’s couch in the kitchen light.

Fuck, what is he gonna tell his _mom_?

After an embarrassing but necessary cry, Lance finally takes a clean breath and rubs his gritty eyes. His face is puffy and swollen and his nose is disgusting. He hobbles pitifully to the tiny bathroom, where he splashes some water on his face and dries it off with a towel. He looks around at the sparse toiletries – toothbrush, toothpaste, floss and that’s it – and thinks, _Shit, I need toiletries._ He can’t exactly camp out without basic necessities. He’ll have to figure that out tomorrow.

He kicks off his shoes, puts his phone in battery save mode, and curls up under the lone couch blanket to watch some TV. He figures Keith will have to surface at some point – guy’s gotta brush his teeth, right? – but apparently not. Two hours of _24_ and Lance admits defeat. He’s not seeing Keith tonight.

Time to snoop.

The kitchen is worryingly bare for the person who is tasked with feeding Lance’s unborn child – there’s only decaf coffee, ketchup and pickles in the fridge. Apparently that stir fry was all Keith had to eat, which probably explains what he was doing in the gas station (but who gets a salad in a _gas station_?) The living room still has a solitary strand of Christmas lights hung up by the tiny windows, though they’re not plugged in. Lance is feeling emotional so he plugs them in, and the cheery rainbow lights go a long way to calming his angst. The linen closet is mostly bare, just cleaning supplies, and the bathroom has Irish Spring and Suave shampoo and nothing else. Keith is a man of simple tastes.

There’s one last door he hasn’t opened, and when he does, it takes his breath away.

It’s the nursery.

A big window sheds filtered moonlight on a totally different room than the rest of the apartment. A solid wood crib rests in the corner next to a dressing table. A car seat sits in the corner, next to a stack of diapers and Walmart baby onesies. Packs of bottles and pacifiers are stacked neatly in the open closet, next to a bookshelf still in its box. Clearly it’s not finished – no sheets on the crib mattress, nothing really put away – but Lance can see the room this will be. There’s a tub of paint on the floor, what looks like a sunny yellow, and little stick-on wall decals of flowers and horses still in the packaging. Everything’s second-hand, scratches on the changing table and scuffs on the car seat, but it’s all here. It’s all lovingly assembled, ready to be deployed. Keith, for all the rancor of today, is actively preparing for the baby in the best way he can.

Some part of him really wants to have this baby. Lance’s baby.

And he had no help from Lance, no help from any parents. On his own, Keith got all this ready, made sure the baby had a room of her own, a car seat and crib and everything. He’s done amazing, really. Lance, in all his high and mighty ways, was criticizing this tiny apartment, when it’s clear Keith is here for the baby’s room. He’s living in this tiny, dark little apartment with no windows anywhere else, because this one room is a perfect baby’s room. And he found it on his salary, which for a mechanic can’t be great. Could Lance have done half as well, if he were in Keith’s shoes?

His sleep on the couch that night is restless and fitful.

 

* * *

 

 

When his alarm goes off at 5:30 the next morning, Keith doesn’t remember at first why he’s so damn _tired_. His body aches like he’s run a marathon and he wants to melt into the bed.

Then it all comes crashing back, every memory of last night, and he thinks, _Shit._

He hauls himself out of bed as quickly as he can, pushing the blankets off like an animal fighting off a net, and tiptoes to the door. The stupid, squeaky springs make an awful sound when he eases it open and he freezes, holding his breath like he’s waiting to get caught.

Nothing happens. He pokes his head out and looks at the living room.

Lance is still there, a long, motionless lump on the couch, wrapped in Keith’s one spare blanket that he must’ve taken from the closet. His hair is staticky and mussed, face slack. Keith heard him tossing and turning all night; fuck, Keith heard him _crying_ last night. Looks like he finally got some sleep.

God. Lance McClain is sleeping on his couch.

Keith shuts the door like Lance’s face is burning him, drops to the bed and puts his head in his hands. His room is so fucking dark and it scares him, so he flips the bedside lamp on. The baby wakes up from the adrenaline and starts thumping, little pops against his navel. “Shut up,” he grumbles, rubbing a hand against her.

Did that really just happen? Keith goes into the same shitty gas station he always stops in and Lance is there, staring right at his belly? He knew Lance was back (had a good cry about it) but figured he’d never come to South LA, would stay in Hollywood far away from him like their first 21 years sharing the city and never meeting each other. And that’s _dumb_ , he knows that now, they met for the first time (only time) in southeast, on Keith’s turf. Of _course_ Lance would be there at the exact moment Keith is, and of _course_ he’d be furious, and of _course_ Keith would act like an asshole. How could that reunion go any other way?

Except Lance is…staying? Refusing to leave? Keith’s not sure what to make of it, what’s happening. This boy that he’s only seen in magazine pictures for seven months  ̶  that face was steadfast, petrified but determined, last night on Keith’s crappy armchair saying he’s not going. Keith gets why he’s pissed – what a life-changing thing, of course he’s pissed about it – but why is he trying to stay, why won’t he go home? He was so distraught he _cried_ last night, but even that wasn’t enough? Keith’s tiny, carefully constructed world has been blown apart by Lance like a hurricane, and he’s still being buffeted by the winds, unable to see for the storm. He has no game plan, no clue how to handle this.

So he reverts to his ingrained default – he avoids.

He forgoes a shower cause it’ll definitely wake Lance up, instead just washing his face and brushing his teeth as quickly as he can. He grabs a protein bar and an apple for breakfast and is about to run out the door when he realizes Lance won’t know where he’s going. He’s going to work, it should be obvious, but apparently Lance McClain has zero chill, and he might show up at the shop and blow their whole cover.

He grabs a Sharpie and a bright orange Chinese takeout menu, writes in big blocky letters ‘I am at work. Stay here. Do not come find me. – Keith’ and sticks it to the fridge with one of his two magnets.

Nailed it. 10/10 communication. Their baby won’t be fucked up _at all_.

He thought work would be good, a distraction from all of it. Stupid banter and bullshit, normally incredibly distracting. Problem is, Keith’s major project is waiting for parts from Japan, and the only other bikes he has are little fixers the owners could probably do themselves. So his brain is completely free to worry about Lance – what he’s doing, who he’s telling, plans he’s making, things he’s discovering in Keith’s apartment. And keeping Lance a secret wasn’t hard when he was across the country, but now he’s here and he’s in Keith’s _house_ and Keith’s having his baby in, like, two months and his brilliant plan to never tell a single soul about his baby’s father is turning out to be not quite so brilliant.

By lunchtime, he’s about ready to explode.

He nods to Sendak, grabs his jacket and is out the door. Every other asshole in this place takes an hour lunch every day, while Keith sticks to the mandated 30 minutes. He’s due for some emergency time.

According to his frantic bus calculations, Pidge has class at 12:30, and assuming she didn’t leave the apartment for lunch, she should be home working on coding right now. He’ll have half an hour, which is not enough time but it’ll have to work.

He doesn’t knock or text or anything, just bypasses her laughable security and walks right in.

“Keith,” she startles, wheeling around in her chair, eyes blinking to adjust from the computer screens. “Shit, you’re lucky I was wearing pants. What are you doing here?”

He lets the door close behind him and gapes at her. All this way and he doesn’t know what to say.

Pidge turns more fully towards him, wearing a t-shirt pulled taught over her belly and baggy sweatpants. Her work station is littered with junk food, all three of her computer screens running some unintelligible script.

“You alive in there?” She says slowly. “My Girl Scout CPR certification expired about five years ago so I’d rather not use that.”

“Lance is here,” Keith gets out.

“Lance? McClain? He’s back in LA?”

Keith nods.

“From Georgia, right? That’s where he was filming?”

Another nod.

“Great, you can ogle him in the same city now instead of reading your People magazine articles.”

“No, I mean, yes, but…he’s _here_.” He knows he’s not making any damn sense, but after seven months he can’t fucking say it.

“What do you mean, he’s here? In my apartment?”

“In _my_ apartment.” Whoop, there it is.

“In your apartment?” Pidge repeats, enunciating each word. “Lance McClain is in your apartment?”

Keith nods. He’s still standing by the door like a dumbass. He feels uncomfortably aware of being pregnant.

“Why the hell is Lance McClain in your apartment? Did you kidnap him?”

“ _No._ He’s…we, uh…he’s the…”

He gives up, and motions at his belly.

Pidge is silent. Her eyes get wide behind her glasses, massive like an owl’s. “What,” she says, crisply. “What?”

He nods, begging her to finish the thought. He used to be a straight talker, he swears. Then he kept a secret for seven months and now he can’t say a word.

“Are you trying to say,” she says, “that Lance McClain is…what, the father of your baby?”

Keith nods, once more.

“No,” she says immediately. “That’s impossible. That’s completely illogical. You had sex with Lance McCain, got pregnant, and nobody knows?”

“Yep,” he says. There’s a hysterical laugh bubbling up in him. It’s out, it’s here, his secret is laid bare. “Yes, exactly.”

“You are crazy. You’ve gone insane. This isn’t real, Keith. Pregnancy is making you crazy. I know you love him but you didn’t _sleep_ with him – “

“I did,” Keith says, face burning, because ouch. “I did, we met at a bar and we had sex without a condom and I got pregnant and never told anyone because he’s closeted and he’s got a girlfriend and I didn’t want to ruin his life.”

“This is _insanity_. Things like that don’t happen, the odds are astronomical, there are infinitesimally small odds of this ever happening – “

Keith pulls out his phone, flicks through to the old text conversation that he hasn’t looked at in months. He scrolls up to the top and shoves it at Pidge. She holds it close to her face with two tiny hands like a raccoon, the images of their texts reflected back in her glasses.

He watches, heart pounding, as her face stays impassive. When she gets to the selfie, however – one of Lance’s last texts, the sweaty selfie from set – then, her eyebrows raise. She turns back to her computer, minimizes the screen, pulls up ‘Lance McClain selfie’. She scrolls through three pages of Google results, looking at selfie after selfie, trying every combination of ‘Lance McClain’, ‘selfie’, ‘suit’, ‘set’, never finding a match. Keith’s heart warms, despite himself; he didn’t actually know that Lance never posted this selfie anywhere. This was just for Keith.

Pidge finally turns back to him, and Keith can practically see the lightbulbs popping in her head. “Keith,” she says seriously, “This is real? This isn’t some elaborate, lonely pregnancy delusion?”

“No,” he says. “No, I swear to God. I met Lance one night at a shitty gay bar and bottomed without a condom. We texted for two months and I never told anyone I was texting him cause I don’t know, it was fun but I didn’t know how far it would go. And I found out I was pregnant – you were there, you saw it – and I just stopped, figured a clean break would be best and I would put it behind me and never bring him into it. And now, he’s back and he saw me and he’s in my apartment cause he says he’s not leaving.”

That’s about the most sanitized way Keith could put it – leaving out all the heartbreak and jealousy and loneliness – but it’s still crazy enough to make Pidge gape at him.

“Fuck,” she says, succinctly.

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?” She says, which is the million dollar question.

“It’s…I…”

“And now he’s in your apartment? And he won’t leave? Do I need to call the police?”

“He’s pissed, dude, he’s so pissed, all last night he said ‘I want answers’ and ‘How could you!’ He was furious.”

“Yeah, you hid his child from him.”

Keith has nothing to say to that, not at first. She says it so simply, like it’s obvious. He finally sits down, his lower back aching in protest from all the standing.

“What do you mean?” He says slowly.

“I don’t know him, so I don’t really have a lot of evidence to go on,” she says. “But he sounds really upset about the fact that he didn’t _know_ he was having a baby, not that he’s having a baby at all. Maybe he just wants to be involved.”

“Why? He’s _famous_ , Pidge, he doesn’t want a baby and a shitty baby mama, he doesn’t want this shit. I was trying to protect him, and the baby, kinda like you did – “

As soon as he says it he knows it’s wrong and he tries to backpedal, but Pidge’s eyes flash and her voice is steely when she says,

“They’re not the same thing and you know it. That man has no right to me or my child and if he comes near us I’ll file charges. But Lance didn’t rape you. You had dumb sex and he seems like a nice guy and he has a right to know about the baby.”

“He does know.”

“Now! Seven months in! Christ, Keith – “

“Stop it,” he says desperately, leaning over his belly. “Fuck. Stop it.”

Pidge stops, her perceptive eyes taking him in. He was doing the right thing, he knows it. He was doing the best thing for everybody. He made the right choice and he made it for a good reason and Pidge doesn’t know, she doesn’t _know_.

“So,” she starts. “Lance McClain.”

“Yeah.”

“He give that good D?”

He gapes at her. “You’re gay.”

“I’m still curious! Did he pretend to be Marco? Does the bad boy thing do it for you?”

“This is my child’s conception, please don’t.”

“How often did you beat your meat after we watched ‘Garrison Varsity’? When do I get to meet him? He’s famous, does he know Bill Nye? Can I meet Bill Nye?”

“Don’t you have class? Wait, also _Bill Nye_ is the famous person you want to meet?”

“Did I stutter?”

 

* * *

 

 

Lance thought he’d had some bad nights of sleep: on set, cramped in shitty trailers; tossing and turning, eaten alive by rumors that he’d abandoned his family when he got famous; waiting up with his sister-in-law when she had her high-risk baby.

The night on Keith’s couch blows every other shitty night right out of the water.

He wakes up with a throbbing kink in his neck, jeans chafing against his skin, feeling like there’s something dead and furry in his mouth. The apartment is so dark he can’t figure out what time of day it is – shit, is it still night? – but there’s thin light coming through the tiny windows and the clock on the stove says 9:18. Morning, then.

He stretches, wincing in pain, and forces his sore body up and off the couch to search for Keith. He doesn’t look far; he sees the takeout menu on the fridge, the curt, hostile message. Alright, then. His heart sinks in his chest. This feels like a quagmire, a labyrinth that he’ll never escape.

Keith has nothing in his fridge, just like last night – Lance isn’t sure why he expected food to magically appear – so he takes a shower just for something to do. He tries not to feel so pathetic, but he’s just happy he’s using Keith’s soap, Keith’s shampoo, Keith’s towels. He puts his clothes from last night back on and goes into the last unopened door in the house – Keith’s bedroom off the kitchen.

If he thought the living room was dark, it’s _nothing_ compared to this room. There are no windows at all, so until Lance finds the lamp switch it’s blackout. The walls are white-washed brick, blank like a prison cell. The narrow room leaves little room for anything but a bed, a dresser and a stand-up wardrobe with a few dress shirts and one pair of slacks. A couple of prints are the only decoration; a large print of a beautiful motorcycle, some cityscapes, a single Chinese character on a white background. The bedsheets are dark red and rumpled, with a few meager pillows. Lance can see the dark outline of a laundry room through the adjacent door. He stands in the room, a figure out of place, an aberration in the room where the father of his child has been sleeping alone and in the dark so the baby can have the good room, and thinks no failure in his life could ever measure up to his feeling.

(Fuck, what if Keith _hasn’t_ been sleeping alone? What if he’s got a boyfriend, someone to hold him and keep him company and assure him that he’s better off without the no-good, douchebag baby daddy?)

He has to stay. He has to stay until he can put at least some of this right. And to stay, he needs supplies.

Hunk, bless him, answers on the second ring.

“Hello? Lance?”

“Hi buddy,” he says, some of the tension loosening from his chest.

“Dude, what’s up? That text was really cryptic last night? Are you okay?”

“Ah. Uhm. Not really.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , just…” Yikes, this is a conversation Lance never thought he’d have to have. Something not unlike embarrassment curls in his belly. “Uh. So. You remember Keith?”

“Yes, obviously, you were in love with him for months. What about him?”

“He’s…he’s pregnant.”

The silence crackles through the phone. He can picture Hunk sitting in his home office, drinking coffee, eating a frittata and trying not to freak out.

“What?” Hunk says.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand, you haven’t seen Keith in, in _months_.”

“Um, yeah. Seven months. Twenty-eight weeks.”

“He’s _seven months pregnant_?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. His stomach is a sour pit.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“No, God, not at all, I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t know?” His voice is totally changed.

“No. Not until last night.”

“That one night, all those months ago – he got pregnant then?”

“One night. I got strong swimmers,” Lance attempts to joke.

It doesn’t really work. “Oh, my God,” Hunk says.

“I know.”

“Oh my _God_.”

“Yeah. I know.”

There’s silence, soft and powerful. The air in this apartment feels static, suspended.

“Wow,” Hunk says again. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Yeah.” Tears come unbidden to Lance’s eyes, just from the surge of emotion.

“Guess you’re gonna have to come out now.”

Lance laughs for the first time in a long time; he’s startled by it, for some idiot reason. For a while there it felt like he would never laugh again. “Yeah, guess so. Think they’ll be more upset about the other thing.”

“Yeah, good point. Okay.” Hunk switches to work mode in a heartbeat. “What’s our game plan? What are you doing?”

“Currently living at Keith’s.”

“That’s…a quick transition.”

“No, it’s like, I’m camping out here.”

“Are you a home intruder?”

“ _No._ Yes? I am at his apartment and I’m not leaving until we have a conversation. It’s cool. We cool.”

“ _Are_ you?” Hunk says skeptically.

“Yeah, why not?”

“That’s…not a good answer. Like, at all.”

“I know, I’m working on it.”

“What do you need from me?”

“If you can, I need some stuff from my house. I don’t have a key so I can’t leave.”

“Got it, I can do that.”

“I love you, you know that? I love you so much. You’re so amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s my pleasure, okay? Just tell me what you need.”

What doesn’t Lance need? He takes a deep breath, tries to focus up.

“Okay, so…”

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of the key turning in the lock jolts Lance off the couch like he’s been electrocuted. He stands like an idiot, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans like he’s waiting for a prom date. This image will go in the dictionary next to the definition for ‘pathetic’.

Keith walks in, his eyes snapping immediately to Lance. He takes Lance’s breath away; he’d almost forgotten, since last night, how absolutely enchanting Keith is right now. The curve of his body is captivating, the juxtaposition of his round belly and thick thighs against Lance’s memory of him as lean and toned, just seven months ago. It’s insane that time has wrought such a quick change. And even now, in a t-shirt and old jeans, he’s gorgeous, just as gorgeous as before. Even more gorgeous, maybe.

He’s also, according to his expression, annoyed.

“You’re still here,” he says.

Lance was expecting this. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I told you I would be.”

Keith narrows his eyes, steps further into the apartment and closes the door behind him. “What’s all this?” He says, eyes flickering around the room.

“Oh, uh, yeah. So. My friend/manager, Hunk, he – you know Hunk, what am I saying – Hunk brought over my stuff. Clothes and toiletries and laptop and face cream and towels.” It’s all piled neatly (as neatly as Lance is capable of, anyway) in a corner of the living room. Keith’s face does something complicated that Lance can’t decipher. “And, uh, I also asked him to get groceries? Like, no offence dude but there is nothing here, and I thought, hey, why not use some cash, so we got bread and milk and eggs and more stir-fry and also beef and pasta and spinach cause the interwebs says that’s good for the baby so, uh. Yeah.”

“You bought groceries?” Keith walks to the living room, peeks into the fridge and pantry to find shelves and shelves full of foodstuffs.

“Uhm, yeah. Figured the baby’s making you hungrier and I put the baby in you cause you were so hot I didn’t want to wear a condom, so really the, like, very least I could do is feed you. And her. And me, cause I like eating too.”

Keith blinks at him. There’s a vague sense of confusion, like he can’t quite understand what Lance is saying, like maybe he’s speaking in a thick Scottish accent. Which is not good, because Lance thought they both spoke English. He can try it in Spanish, but if Keith doesn’t speak that then he’s shit outta luck.

“You told him? Hunk?” Keith says abruptly.

“Uh, yeah. He’s my best friend. And also my manager. He has to know.”

“Who is he going to tell?”

“No one.” Lance raises his hands, trying to placate. “No one, dude, Hunk’s not gonna tell. This is…let’s just say, this will require some, uh, delicate PR, so Hunk’s not going to spread this around willy-nilly. That is, like, the exact opposite of his job.”

“PR?” Keith repeats. He walks over to the couch and drops heavily into it. His eyes are very wide. “PR, what does PR have to do with this?”

“What does PR have to do with this?” Lance repeats slowly. “Like, a lot? Like, I’m kinda famous, and I’m having a baby, and PR needs to do their thing so we don’t come off looking like horny horndogs too dumb to – “

“You’re telling people? About us?”

“What, you’re not telling anyone? You haven’t told _anyone_ I’m here?”

“Pidge. That’s it. Lance, you can’t fucking tell, you can’t let this get out, we can’t – “

“I’m not going to tell,” he says firmly, blinking back a rush of tears. God, this kid is really ashamed of him, isn’t he? “Look, I promise. Just Hunk, okay? I get that we…we need to figure this out together for a bit before we bring other people into it.”

Keith nods. The panic in his eyes appears to die down.

“How about dinner?” Lance says. “I’ll make dinner. I make a really good chicken parm. You won’t even know it’s healthy. Its nutrients will blow your mind.”

Keith shrugs. It’s not the response Lance was hoping for, but he’s had to lower his expectations since this whole thing hit the fan, so it’s more than enough. He immediately gets to work, heating up the oven, pulling out chicken breasts, eggs and bread crumbs. Lance works in total silence, not daring to risk another argument by playing the normal reggaeton that always accompanies his cooking. When he sneaks glances at Keith, he sees that he’s tipped his head back on the back of the couch and is breathing heavily, like he’s asleep. One hand is in his lap, tucked into the curve of his belly. Lance desperately wants to touch him, to lay his hand alongside and feel Keith’s warmth.

He doesn’t. He keeps his head down and cooks.

Forty-five minutes later, he prepares a plate of steaming, perfect chicken parm and spaghetti and brings it over. He clears his throat, as softly as he can, and after a few seconds Keith blinks his eyes open, soft and sleepy like a Disney princess.

“Dinner,” Lance whispers, and holds it out.

Keith actually smiles. He stretches, his legs kicking out, and then takes the plate with a quiet “Thank you.” Lance could burst with happiness.

They sit down to eat in the living room just like last night; Keith doesn’t have a dining room table, seems mostly to eat at his coffee table. Keith makes appreciative noises every so often. He has trouble leaning over his belly to get to the food, has to huff a little. Lance doesn’t want to find it adorable, but he does.

“You cook a lot?” Keith asks.

Actual conversation? Praise Jesus, Hallelujah. “Yeah, when I can. My mom and abuela taught me.”

Keith nods, twirling a bite of spaghetti on his fork. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah, it’s fun.”

“What were you actually doing in that gas station?”

Lance fights down on the defensiveness rising from the other times Keith has asked that question. Keith sounds curious now, not furious, and he focuses on that.

“I was getting an iced coffee. I’d been at St. Cecilia’s, I was pretty exhausted.”

“The hospital you volunteer at?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, totally surprised Keith remembered that.

“You were there, the night we met.”

Lance gives a lopsided smile. “Oh, yeah. I was. Small world.”

Keith says nothing, ducks his head down to finish his dinner. What a lengthy, enlightening conversation, Lance thinks sourly. He should’ve told Hunk to get some booze. Keith can’t drink it but Lance sure as fuck can.

When he’s done, Keith puts his plate on the table. He does a slow sweep over Lance’s belongings – his favorite pillow, all the non-essential-but-still-essential toiletries he hasn’t unpacked yet, a big travelling suitcase with all sorts of clothes and shoes and various shit.

“So you just live here now,” he says flatly.

Lance doesn’t back down. He prepared for this, today, while sitting all alone in the house. “Yeah.” Simple as that.

“You don’t have a key.”

“Actually,” Lance fishes it out of his jeans pockets. “Your spare key was nice and hidden in that black hole you call a junk drawer, but I found it and it totally still works. So yeah, I do have a key. We good.”

“You can’t do this,” he says.

Lance knows, he _knows_ this is so beyond insane and if he heard about anyone else doing else he’d call them crazy and overdramatic and remind them that real people don’t live in a soap opera. It’s just…it’s the principal of the thing. A physical reminder to Keith that Lance is here, that he can’t just erase him, that Lance will be here and wants to be here and Keith is going to have to deal with him whether he wants to or not (the current consensus seems to be not).

“I could call the cops,” Keith says.

“You could,” Lance acknowledges. “But I would really hope you wouldn’t, cause that would really screw over my management team. And me, I don’t want to go to jail. Plus, I fed you! Chicken parm!”

Keith doesn’t look impressed. He kinda looks sad. “How long are you gonna stay here?”

“Until we get this sorted,” Lance says. It’s the least romantic way he could say it – doesn’t cover a tenth of the things he needs – but at least it’s true. If nothing else, they need to sort this out.

Keith swallows. Lance would give every penny of his fortune just to know what he’s thinking right now. He’s trying to have hard, emotional conversations with the Sphinx.

_I know you’re in there,_ he thinks. _You feel_ something _for me, I know it._

They wash the dishes in silence. Keith brushes his teeth and slumps off to his little room on his own.

Lance makes himself as comfortable as he can on the couch. He fluffs up his pillow, covers himself in the thin blanket, and boots up Netflix.

Right there, under Recently Watched, is ‘Garrison Varsity’.

Lance can’t help it; his heart spikes. “You do like me,” he whispers, feeling blush crawl up his face. It’s definitely Keith’s Netflix; his name is in the upper corner. Keith Kogane, of his own free will, watches Lance’s breakthrough show.

The thought brings him the tiniest amount of comfort, and falling asleep on this shitty couch is much easier than last night.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith wakes up the next morning to the same text he’s gotten every hour for the past 48 hours.

Pidge: _Text Shiro._

He groans, shoves his face back in the pillow. He’s really not in the mood. He’s got an awful, crawling feeling in his stomach, like he swallowed cockroaches. It’s like morning sickness, except he hasn’t had morning sickness in two months, and this is so much worse.

His phone buzzes again. He blinks at it with bleary eyes.

_Do it you stupid fuck._

She mixes up the wording like that, but the message is always the same: Keith needs to tell Shiro about Lance. Except he doesn’t, cause he doesn’t want to, and why tell Shiro this huge, embarrassing, crazy thing if he and Lance aren’t together and it doesn’t have a huge impact on his life? Lance’ll be gone soon anyway, back to Hollywood and his rich and beautiful life. It’s the best for everybody, and it’s definitely best if Shiro knows nothing about it.

Keith bites down on a wave of nausea, exacerbated by the baby doing a forward roll. Fuck, his sheets are so hot, trapping him in a net of sweat. He pushes them off, sits up, swallows against the rush of bile and nausea that almost makes him tip over. _Jesus,_ he feels terrible.

The lurch in his stomach drags him to his feet, steadying himself with a hand on his dresser. He really doesn’t want Lance to see him like this, but Lance isn’t on the couch when he comes out and the bathroom door’s open, everything washed in soft pre-dawn light. He sees a note on the fridge from Lance and stops to read, but only gets halfway – something about an early morning meeting – before his stomach flips and he staggers to the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and empties his stomach in the toilet, his belly keeping him at an awkward angle from the bowl. He thanks God Lance isn’t here to see this, because it’s nasty, and he’s crying a little cause it hurts. The baby kicks, and in between vomiting spells he rubs a hand against her. Gotta be scary for her, having her dad puke – like an earthquake or something.

The puking goes on for far longer than Keith wanted, long after he thought his stomach was empty. He doesn’t want to blame Lance’s chicken parm – because it was delicious – but odds are that caused this. Maybe it was _too_ rich, after months of gas station salads and stirfry. It’s still really early, early enough that Keith’s not gonna worry about texting Sendak to call out. He can’t go into work, he knows that. Or maybe he could, but he’s having a hell of a time convincing himself he should.

He’s exhausted when it’s over, bone-tired, and slumps onto the floor of the bathroom. The cool tile feels good after overheating in his bed, and he maneuvers around, shifting so his head is under the threadbare bath mat. It’s not exactly comfortable, but for some reason it’s the only place he wants to be right now.

He drifts in and out of a half-sleep, eyes closed, chest moving softly. The baby kicks at first and then decides to sleep too, just gentle nudges every now and then. It’s nice that she’s letting him sleep for once. Relaxing. In and out. It’s quiet, just the faintest glimmer of light from the living room windows, barely visible beyond the door. Dust particles hover in the air.

It’s very quiet…

Far, far away, at the end of a very long tunnel, there’s a noise.

He doesn’t want to move. He’s very heavy.

Words filter in, patchy and faint.

“ – God, no – please – can’t – “

He doesn’t respond. He’s so heavy. His head is lying on something soft and he has no interest in moving it.

“ – emergency – bathroom – seven months pregnant – “

A hand grabs him, hot and urgent, shakes him. Hauls him up out of the soft place.

Keith opens his eyes.

Lance, panicked, tears in his eyes, shaking him.

“Baby, fuck, fuck, tell me where it hurts.”

Keith’s eyes scrunch up.

“Now, Keith, _fuck_ , where’d you fall?”

“Sir, is he bleeding?”

“No, I don’t know, there’s vomit in the toilet and his eyes are open but he won’t _talk_ to me – “

In a flash, Keith is wide awake. There’s Lance, kneeling in front of him, holding him up by the shoulders, his phone face-up on the ground with an open phone call to 911.

“Lance, I’m fine,” he says quickly.

“ _Keith_ , shit, what’s wrong? Babe, does it hurt, where does it hurt – “

“Nowhere, it hurts nowhere. I had morning sickness and came in here to puke and fell asleep on the floor afterwards.”

“You didn’t fall?” Lance’s eyes are so wide and close Keith can see every tiny blood vessel, the shine of unshed tears.

“No, I promise. Not hurt, not bleeding. I’m fine.”

“Baby?”

“Baby’s fine, totally fine.”

Lance gapes at him wordlessly, chest heaving. The grip on Keith’s arms slackens, and Keith adjusts to bear his own weight.

“Sir, did I hear that right? Your husband is alright, he was just sleeping?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Keith speaks to the phone – to the 911 operator, shit. “I just fell asleep on the bathroom floor. No fall, no blood, just nausea.”

“The paramedics are on their way already, they’ll do a quick check just in case. But it sounds like you’re okay?”

“Yes, I am.” Keith’s okay but Lance isn’t; he’s crying silently, looking blankly at Keith’s face like he’s barely seeing him.

“Okay, do you want me to stay on the line until they get here?”

“No, we’re fine,” Keith says, already reaching for the phone. He needs to be alone with Lance, ten minutes ago. “Thank you,” he says at the last minute, before pressing the off button.

Once she hangs up Lance is crying in earnest, big gulping sobs.

“You called 911?”

“You looked _dead_!” Lance says, voice shaking so much Keith can barely understand him. “You looked like you’d hit your head and _died_ on the bathroom floor, I’ve never been more scared in my _life_ , I get a meeting cancelled and I come home and I thought I was gonna _lose_ you, I didn’t know what to do, I thought you were d- _dead_ – “

He keeps talking after that but it’s so choked with tears Keith can’t tell one word from the other. He’s terrified, weirdly, in the face of so much pain and agitation, sitting there like an idiot.

Then Lance leans forward – falls forward, really – and draws Keith into a hug.

Keith freezes, pressed against a crying movie star, Lance’s hot, wet face smushed into his neck. He doesn’t think Lance is capable of letting go, he’s holding on so tight. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers, and he reacted like this? The thought of Keith caused him this much pain? This idiot called 911 before checking on Keith, just reacted on pure instinct and is now shaking through the adrenaline, gasping and heaving hot breaths into Keith’s neck.

He’s _distraught_. Over just the thought of Keith and the baby dying.

Now it’s Keith’s turn to act on instinct. He does the only thing he thinks will bring Lance some peace of mind: grabs his hands from where they’re rested on Keith’s shoulders and slips them down to his belly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

Lance immediately pushes up Keith’s t-shirt and puts his hands right on the skin. Keith wants to squirm away from sensitivity and embarrassment, from the fact that this is the first time Lance has touched his skin since they made the baby, but he forces himself to breathe through it. Lance cups his belly so, so gently, like he’s holding a tiny, fragile snail shell. His breathing slows against Keith’s neck, not as galloping as before.

“Shh,” Keith says, feeling so damn awkward. He’s never done this before. “We’re okay.”

Slowly, he moves his hand up Lance’s back, places it between his shoulder blades. The position is so awkward, Keith’s legs thrown strangely to the side with his back against the cold porcelain tub, Lance leaned over in a way that must be killing his back, resting his whole weight on Keith. His hands slowly start to stroke Keith’s belly, and Keith wills the baby to kick.

_Come on, kiddo. Show your dad you’re there._

Lance needs this. He needs to feel it. And Keith wants it. He wants this boy to be happy, to be at peace.

_Come on…come on…_

The smallest of thumps.

Lance stills, saying nothing. Keith drags in a breath. He slips his own hand down, pokes himself. She jolts in response, and Lance lets out a gasping laugh.

“Hi,” he whispers. Keith’s heart clenches at his voice; it’s awed, fond, loving, tender. “Hi. Hi, baby. You’re okay.”

Keith nods. He hasn’t looked Lance in the eyes in 15 minutes. The bathroom is so quiet. Lance’s hands nudge under his t-shirt again, warm and clumsy.

“Hi,” he says again.

Keith doesn’t mean to make a decision. But a decision gets made anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

The paramedics come and perform a cursory examination of Keith on his own couch. They pronounce him in perfect health and don’t make any comments about the weird phone call. Keith nods and lets Lance hover, his arm and fingers and shoulder and chin catching on Keith, like he can’t bear to not physically touch Keith once every minute or so, tiny fleeting touches to make sure Keith’s still alive. When the medics leave Keith texts Sendak that he’s not coming in and then settles on the couch, not surprised at all when Lance falls down right beside him. He tucks his head into Keith’s shoulder, curving his body over until he’s a line of heat against Keith’s arm. Keith grabs the blanket and throws it over both of their laps. He already feels like he’ll combust from Lance’s heat, but for some reason he can’t bear the thought of Lance not being taken care of right now. Which is weird, because he’s the one that had the quasi-medical scare, but Lance is the one who needs cuddled.

This the most parental Keith’s ever been, and it’s towards his baby daddy. Is that weird? Yes, definitely, it’s super weird.

But it’s happening, so whatever.

Keith turns on Netflix, just to fill the quiet. ‘Garrison Varsity’ is the most recently watched, which neither of them comment on. Lance still doesn’t talk, but over a couple episodes of grade-A fictionalized drama, his silence morphs from adrenaline-based to embarrassment-based. He ducks his head in Keith’s shoulder for long stretches of time, starts to pull back his hands but keeps his face hidden, like he knows he shouldn’t be touching Keith so much but can’t stop.

“Feeling alright?” Keith says. It comes out slightly fond, teasing. He’s not sure how that happened.

“Uh, yeah,” Lance chuckles. He still doesn’t look at Keith, face tucked away. “Yeah, I think we’re, uh…I think I’m good. Are you? Are you good?”

“We’ve been over this, actually. I do think I’m good.”

“I _know_ , shit, I’m so sorry, I was just panicking, I know I didn’t need to do that, I’m sorry – “

“It’s okay,” Keith says, and means it. “It’s fine. It was kinda sweet.”

This, finally, drags Lance’s face out of its burrow in Keith’s shoulder. He looks up at Keith with shiny, awestruck blue eyes, so ardent they make Keith’s stomach go hot and squirmy. He says the next sentence mostly to get that look off Lance’s face.

“Do you want to meet Shiro and Adam?”

“Shiro? Your brother?”

“Yeah. We normally do dinner once a week. You could come.”

Keith’s plan has backfired, dramatically; Lance now looks on the verge of tears. “Seriously?” He says, voice dangerously thick.

Keith nods. “This is happening, so.” He’s not sure, exactly, what ‘this’ is: Lance living with him, Lance co-parenting, some relationship with Lance beyond sperm donor. All he knows is, he’s got the same fierce, burning drive that used to dictate all of his decisions before pregnancy made him cautious, scared to jump. For the first time in months, he feels like taking a plunge, to stop worrying and second-guessing and just say fuck it and ride that wave. He’s not sure and doesn’t want to think too hard about it, but maybe his sudden change of attitude is because it seems like Lance is willing to take a plunge for _him_.

“Yeah,” Lance says, dazed. “Yeah, I’d, uh, I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Keith says, like an idiot. There’s a Lance on the screen and a Lance on his couch and he’s not sure how either of them got there. He has no idea what’s going to happen from here.

Lance leans his head on Keith’s shoulders and they watch the show in silence.

 

* * *

 

 

There are, of course, some flaws in Keith’s plan.

“Do, uh…do they know I’m coming?” Lance says as they step out of the Uber in front of Shiro and Adam’s.

“They know someone’s coming.” He had just texted ‘Bringing a friend for dinner.’ Adam had sent back the surprised emoji and ‘You have a friend??’, cause he’s a jackass like that.

“So they don’t know _I’m_ coming.”

“No, not specifically.”

“Damn it, Keith.” He grips his offertory bottle of wine tight as he walks up. He procured, without Keith ever seeing him do it, a bottle of extremely expensive wine, the value of which will be lost on everyone except Adam. “This is gonna go terribly.”

“Probably,” Keith says, and rings the doorbell.

Shiro takes his time getting to the door. “I’m impressed,” he says, opening the door. “Normally you just walk in, your manners – “

He sees Lance and his voice trails off.

“Shiro, this is Lance,” Keith says. “McClain,” he adds uselessly.

“Hi, great to meet you,” Lance says, and holds a hand out to shake.

Shiro takes it totally out of habit, his eyes darting rapidly between Lance and Keith. “Lance,” he repeats. “This is a surprise.”

“What’s a surprise?” Adam comes around the corner, drying his hand on a dishtowel, and freezes in the foyer. “Fuck, that’s Lance McClain.”

“And that’s Adam,” Keith says.

“Hi,” Lance says. His face is bright red.

“Keith, why is Lance McClain here for dinner?” Shiro asks.

Keith nudges an unresponsive Lance inside, shuts the front door, and says, “Cause he’s the father of the baby.”

Plunge taken.

Adam and Shiro say nothing, frozen in statuesque poses. “You could’ve said that better,” Lance mutters, gripping his bottle of wine like a lifeline.

“Lance McClain?” Adam repeats. “What, from that show? With the teenagers and stuff?”

“Garrison Varsity,” Keith says. “He’s right here, also, you don’t have to keep saying his full name.” He’s weirdly zen about this. The truth is out, no matter how much nobody can believe it. All they have to do is get to the acceptance phase. All of this is just temporary panic.

“Sorry,” Adam says to Lance, belatedly. “About that. But you slept with _Keith_?”

Keith flushes violently red. Wow, Adam, thanks for the vote of confidence.

“Uh.” Lance’s eyes look everywhere in the room but Keith. “Your brother – brother-in-law? Foster brother-in-law? – uh, whatever, is really hot. Like, super hot. So. Uh. Yeah.”

Keith’s burning face goes hot for another reason. Really hot. Super hot. He wants his belly to disappear for ten minutes so he can be that hot again. Maybe show Lance what he thinks of _his_ body.

Shiro and Adam apparently have nothing to say to that. Shiro is looking worryingly into the middle distance like he’s trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the room, and Adam keeps looking at Keith’s belly like he’s relearning how babies are made.

The dumpster fire is turning into more of a landfill fire.

“How about we eat,” Keith says. “Dinner?”

“I brought you this.” Lance all but shoves the wine at Adam, giving up his lifeline at last. He fidgets with his hands for a minute – slipping them in his pockets, tapping his thighs, running them through his hair – before grabbing Keith’s hand violently.

This, of course, causes Shiro and Adam to both react, eyebrows raised and mouths open. Keith grips tight and glares at Shiro, commanding him to say something.

“Dining room’s this way,” Shiro says, stunned.

Keith tugs Lance through, nudges him into a seat, gives him a quick smile. Lance is pale and visibly anxious, but he smiles too. _This is happening_ , Keith reminds himself. _We’re a team. In it together._

He catches sight of Adam gaping at the wine bottle in the kitchen, not even pouring it out. He goes over to look and finds a label entirely in French, not a recognizable word in sight.

“This wine is a thousand dollars,” Adam whispers.

Keith shrugs. “He’s a movie star.”

Adam looks at Keith, glasses reflecting the light of the kitchen. “What did you do?” he whispers, and it sounds a bit awed.

“Something dumb,” he replies. “Trying to figure it out. He’s…he’s a really good guy, dude. He’s…yeah.”

Adam’s face softens. “We were never gonna kick him out, Keith. We were just surprised. I can’t wait to get to know him.”

He claps him on the shoulder and starts pouring wine. Keith ducks his head, smiling down at his belly, and grabs the salad bowl.

Adam comes out when they’re all seated with three glasses of wine and a water for Keith. Shiro, normally a beer drinker exclusively, opens his mouth as if to protest, but Adam sends him such a death glare he shuts up instantly.

“Thanks for the wine, Lance,” he says. Keith can almost hear the ‘McClain’ he wanted to tack on, but didn’t. “I can’t wait to try it.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Lance grins too brightly and grabs his glass. “Toast?”

They all raise their glasses slowly.

“To Keith,” Lance says, making deliberate eye contact. “Who is doing an amazing job in a really tough situation.”

“ _Lance_ ,” he mutters.

“It’s true.” Lance doesn’t back down. “You have really been a rock star about this and I think you need to hear that more. So, to Keith.”

“To Keith,” Shiro and Adam echo, and drink. Keith drinks his water and looks down at his lap, where the baby is warm and quiet under his Henley. He hasn’t done an amazing job _at fucking all_. He hid the truth from Lance for months and months, lied to everyone else, was an absolute asshole when Lance came back. Fuck, he made Lance _cry_ that first night. Nothing about this has been handled well, at all. And Lance is putting him on blast about it, in front of his family.

Except that isn’t how the toast is received; Shiro looks impressed. He leans onto the table with wine in hand and says,

“Lance McClain, huh? It’s great to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too! Keith talks about you all the time, it’s great to finally meet you guys.” This is a blatant lie. Keith has talked about them exactly once. But it makes both of them smile.

“Well, it’s not every day we get to meet a star! How is…work, I guess?”

“Work is good,” Lance says with an amused smile. _Jesus, what a gorgeous human_ , Keith thinks, a furl of heat in his belly. “Just wrapped up shooting in Georgia, so I’m glad to be back home.”

“How does that work? Do they put you up in hotels, or are you stuck in trailers?” Shiro asks.

“Oh, I _love_ my trailer,” Lance says, and they’re off to the races. By the time he’s done with a description of his trailer (which has two TVs and red Jello stains from a Hunk prank years ago), Shiro and Adam are smiling and laughing, taking long pulls from the wine. They’ve got dozens of questions about the movie-making process which Lance is happy to answer, with lots of humor and patience. He’s so good at this, at smiling and answering questions and making everyone feel at ease. Keith mostly sits there, smiling to himself with a hand on his belly, trying to fight off the warmth in his cheeks and happily failing.

Lance carries them straight through dinner, and it’s only at dessert that Shiro and Adam seem to remember why, exactly, they have a movie star in their house. “So, are we going to be seeing more of you?” Shiro asks.

“Yeah,” Lance says, without hesitation. Then he sends a panicked look at Keith. “I mean, if that’s – “

“Yeah, you will,” Keith says simply.

Adam and Shiro nod, like they’re recalibrating around the new information. Keith looks at Lance, finds him warm and smiling. He regrets putting them at opposite sides of the table; he’d quite like to hold Lance’s hand right now. He’s never thought that about anyone before.

He excuses himself for a pregnancy-mandated pee break and afterwards finds Lance deep in conversation with Adam about the merits of spaghetti squash. Shiro is in the kitchen, washing up.

“Hey,” Keith says.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, all good.”

Shiro smiles. “I really like him. He’s great guy, Keith.”

He says it like Keith did something to snag Lance, like he earned Lance instead of jumping on his dick like an idiot and then trapping him with an unplanned pregnancy. “Yeah, I know.” The shadowy figure of Allura Altea rises unbidden in Keith’s mind, like the reminder of a life Lance would rather be living.

“It seems like you’ve got to work on your communication,” Shiro says, in typical fashion. “But you’re partners in this, and it seems like he knows that. That’s not a bad place to start.”

Keith hears the compliment for what it was, in Shiro’s overly pedantic tone, but instead of feeling proud and full of approval there’s a vague sense of dread. Because he _will_ fuck this up, he knows it. He’s already fucked this up beyond hope of repair. They barely made it through one dinner okay, that doesn’t exactly bode well for the rest of their fucking _lives_.

Lance says his goodbyes to Shiro and Adam, all effervescent hugs and effortless smiles and genuine, heartfelt compliments. He’s a fucking charm bomb, and Keith’s fucking family is going to like Lance better than him when it’s all over. Totally oblivious to Keith’s turmoil, Lance helps him into his sweatshirt and calls a car, helps Keith into the backseat with a casually possessive hand on the small of Keith’s back. The touch sends a shiver through every one of Keith’s nerve endings, making him freeze up with too much kinetic energy and nowhere to expend it. He should do something, reciprocate somehow. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to do _anything_ right.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Lance says, with that sunrise smile that makes Keith’s heart clench. “I really appreciate it, getting to know your family. They’re so cool, and they love you so much, man. They’re gonna be such awesome uncles, way better than my idiot uncles who taught me all the Spanish swears but told me they were prayers and got me a _chancla_ from my abuela when I said them in church.”

“Yeah,” Keith says faintly, because none of that means a damn thing to him. Literally everything about their lives has been different.

When they get dropped off at the house – and this is how out of it Keith is, that he doesn’t realize it’s a private black car and not an Uber until just then, when the driver says, “Goodnight, Mr. McClain” and comes around to open their doors, causing a whole new cascade of internal freakouts – Lance is in a great mood. He hums to himself when he brushes his teeth, little pops of his hips when he puts on one of his innumerable face creams. Keith watches him get ready for bed, fluffing his lone pillow and re-arranging the threadbare blanket, with a panicked need to _act_. Lance is so happy, and loves so much, and if Keith doesn’t do something back Lance will _leave_ , take all this sunshine with him.

“Do you like the couch?” He blurts out. Like a fucking idiot.

Lance looks up, eyebrows drawing together. “Uh…yeah, dude, it’s fine. I’ve slept on worse, believe me, my twin bed growing up was _so_ much worse, it was like lying on cinderblocks.”

Which…is not the answer Keith needed. He needed Lance to say, “No, your couch sucks ass,” so Keith could suavely say, “Wanna sleep somewhere nicer?” Instead, he’s bumbling for words, standing there like a goddamn idiot in his massive pregnancy sweater, trying to come up with something to say while Lance gets more and more confused.

Finally he gets out, “You could sleep somewhere softer.”

“Oh…kay? Where?” Lance looks around the tiny apartment like a bed is going to magically appear.

Keith fists his hands in his hair, tries to breathe without grunting in frustration. The baby is awake – probably responding to the insane pounding of his heart – and she’s not helping matters.

Lance, thank God, catches on. “Are you, like, inviting me to sleep with _you_?”

“Yes,” Keith says, relieved. “Yeah, I am.”

“Oh,” Lance says. His cheeks glow a beautiful red. “Yeah. I’d love to.”

“Cool,” Keith says with a smile. The baby kicks fiercely, and he puts an instinctive hand on his belly to soothe her. He wishes he hadn’t; Lance gets cagey very quickly once he sees it, having trouble meeting Keith’s eyes as he scoops up his pillow and phone charger and heads into the bedroom. Awesome. Keith got a smile for a grand total of one second. He’s totally not fucking this up _at all_. This is going to go _great_.

He walks into the bedroom next, but only to grab his biggest, most circus-tent-like pregnancy pajamas. It’s dumb, Lance literally touched his belly this morning, he knows that Keith does, in fact, have a body, it’s just…he doesn’t really need to see it, right? Keith can live in massive tablecloths until the baby’s out and, if Lance is still there, present him with the non-swollen body that he described as “really hot.”

While he’s changing and brushing his teeth in the bathroom he texts Pidge, something useless like, “Lance in my bed tonight?????” She, of course, sends back, “FUCK YES RIDE THAT D YEET THAT BITCH wear a condom just to be safe PUT THEM SENSITIVE TIDDIES TO WORK” and 80 emojis. It came very fast, that text. Must’ve worn her little fingers to the nub texting that garbage.

When Keith finally re-enters the bedroom, Lance is standing by the bed looking totally lost. “I wasn’t sure,” he blurts. “Where you slept. Which side, I mean, I know you sleep in the bed. Obviously, it’s your bed. I know sleeping must be…more uncomfortable, now, so I didn’t want to…”

He trails off, with the helpless look of a small animal caught in a bear trap. Keith thinks, oddly, that he has no idea how two humans _this_ awkward managed to make a baby.

He points to the side closest to the door, and Lance immediately moves his pillow to the other side by the wall. Keith hesitates a moment, because the last time he shared a bed with Lance some very fun things happened, and he’s equal parts terrified and desperate for them to happen again, but then he clambers in as gracefully as he can. He pulls the covers over and Lance does too, and then – there’s someone here, another warm body in this shitty bed, and this person is the father of his baby and that father is Lance McClain, and for all these long months and all the long years before it Keith almost never shared a bed with anyone. He remembers why not; it’s fucking terrifying, having a human next to him when he’s resting, and all the limitless potential of human actions right here, while he’s trying to sleep. He feels like an animal, watching, waiting to see what Lance will do. What he’ll do with Keith.

The light’s still on, so Keith can see clearly when Lance turns over on his side so he can look at Keith. “Hey,” he says. “I’m not…gonna do anything you’re not comfortable with. Okay? I promise, I’m not a creep, or anything. No awful-Hollywood-Harvey Weinstein-bullshit. Seriously, I’m just…happy to be here.”

Keith’s chest relaxes, unleashing a wave of relief and…disappointment? Because thank God, Lance doesn’t anything like _that_ from him, the very thought fills Keith with absolute fear, the terror of inevitable failure and disappointment from both parties. But also…of course, Lance doesn’t want to touch him. Why would he? Keith looks like an inflated balloon animal right now. Of course there was no universe where Lance could ever find him sexy. Keith wouldn’t find himself sexy at all. Most days he hates even looking at himself, he can’t imagine trying to fuck like this.

Still, he smiles at Lance, neck craned at a weird angle to look at him (because turning over is a lot easier for Lance than it is for Keith right now). Lance returns it, soft, sleepy-eyed in the single point of light in the dark room. Keith reaches out, nudges around until he hits the lamp switch, plunges them both into darkness. The air is alive, now, like it’s never been before; two sets of syncopated breathing, two puffs of warm breath into the negative space, the minute rustlings of two bodies against the sheets. Two humans. Two and a half, really. Two individuals and the incipient amalgamation of both of them, soon to be an individual too.

Keith shuts his eyes.

For a fierce, lonely moment, he wants to grab Lance’s hand.

He doesn’t. He breathes. Eventually, he puts himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

When Lance wakes up the next morning, he opens his eyes into deep darkness and the lingering traces of warmth beside him.

This isn’t surprising. Keith’s been gone before Lance almost all of the mornings since he’s been here. What is new, and wonderful, is the way Lance can roll over and press his face into Keith’s pillow, chasing those remnants of warmth, that tiny smell of heat and musk and oil still left on the pillowcase. It’s pathetic. He doesn’t care.

He wakes up, makes a cup of coffee, eats some avocado toast. Then, he gets practical.

The first call is to his financial advisor, a sweet woman named Nora whose primary job, as far as Lance can tell, is to move Lance’s money around into weird stocks and bonds and other shit so it doesn’t…disappear? He doesn’t know. He says hello, gently reminds her of the NDAs she signed, and then goes into a halting explanation of every single life change he’s experienced in the last week.

“So, like, can we set up a college fund? And, you know, get another credit card under my account for Keith? So he’s got access to my money? No limit, I don’t know, whatever, but, just in case, you know…they’re taken care of.”

“Lance,” she says, “your holdings are…very substantial. College won’t be a problem, as far as finances go.”

“I know, but aren’t there tax-free accounts for that? Someplace where the money goes and no one can touch it? I just…if I, you know, lose my voice and can never act again and I end up broke and destitute, I just want them to be okay.”

“Sure, Lance,” she says, with the air of someone who thinks what the other person is saying is lunacy. He thinks he can hear some fondness, too, so he’s not offended. “We can do that for you. Let me take a look at your portfolio and I’ll get back to you.”

The thought of him losing his voice and never acting turns into a much deeper spiral of him _dying_ and leaving Keith and the baby broke and alone, so he calls Hunk in full hysteria mode. Hunk talks him down, tells him he’s not gonna die, and promises to call his lawyer to figure out how to adjust his will accordingly. Lance has looked at his will a grand total of one (1) time, and it made him panic then, so he’s more than happy to let the lawyers figure that out and he’ll sign off at the end. He knows Keith’s not his biggest fan, but he’ll take Lance’s money if Lance _dies_ , right? For the baby, at least?

It’s all so fucked, so next he grabs his wonderful credit with its wonderfully high limit and goes apeshit on baby supplies. Diapers and bottles and clothes and a crib and a car seat and a changing table and a Diaper Genie cause he doesn’t know what that is but it sounds like it makes diapers disappear and that can only be a good thing. He doesn’t think about a theme, or a color scheme, or anything matching, just buys the most expensive thing he sees and figures what’s more important is getting something in his house, which has nothing for the baby _at all_. He also buys like fifteen parenting books, all the top-rated ones on Amazon, and when he’s done he’s significantly less rich and significantly more in awe of Keith doing this without a platinum credit card.

Dinner that night is grilled chicken with brussels sprouts. Keith pokes suspiciously at them until Lance informs him they’re grilled with butter and bacon fat. He’s much more receptive after that. Lance watches him with this little smile on his face, soft-hearted and sappy, and doesn’t tell Keith about anything he did today. The ground between them is still so shaky, the ice so thin…Lance wants these tender little moments while he has them.

He’s zoned out, eating on autopilot, when Keith asks in that gunfire way of his –

“Did you tell your parents yet?”

Lance jerks. “Sorry?”

“Did you tell them?” Keith asks. His face is totally neutral. “About me.”

“Ahh. No. Uh. Not yet.”

“Are you not close with them?”

“No, no, we’re super close.” It’s been eating at him, actually, to not tell them; he’s been avoiding his mom’s calls, for fear that he’ll blurt it out. “I just, you know. We said we’d keep it between ourselves for a while.”

Keith nods, and if Lance is imagining the approval on his face…well, it’s been a very long week. He’ll take a nice delusion where he can get it.

“Is this their first grandkid?”

“No,” Lance says, “no, my brother Luis is married, they’ve got two kids. They were pretty young too, I think, like 22? Something like that, close to us. So I’m not even the first one to have kids _young_ , it’s just…” He smiles, shrugs. “It’ll be a little different, cause I’m the youngest, and I’m…you know. Famous, or something.”

“Famous or something,” Keith snorts.

“I don’t know, I hate saying it! ‘I’m famous,’ like bitch, we been knew!”

Keith laughs, actually laughs. It’s like fireworks. Lance could float away.

“You can tell them, you know.” Keith spears a brussels sprout.

“What?”

“About me,” he says. “And the baby. The whole thing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. They’re your family. They need to know.” He looks down at his plate, ducking his head so Lance is left to stare at the top of Keith’s head with his eyes watering.

“Thank you,” he says, voice totally thick. Keith’s head pops up in alarm.

“Why are you crying? I’m the pregnant one, I should be crying! Stop crying!”

“Okay,” Lance says, and continues to cry.

“Oh my God.” Keith looks at him in horror. “Do you just cry all the time?”

“No!”

“You do! You cry all the time!”

“I’m very emotional!”

“Stop!”

“Being emotional?”

“Yes!”

“This is a very emotional time!”

“You are not allowed to talk to your family anymore if this is what you’re going to do.”

“No take-backsies.” Lance wipes his eyes off.

Keith quirks a smile. He’s beautiful, Lance thinks. Hair a mess, old t-shirt stretched over his belly, razor nick at his jaw. He’s beautiful, and Lance wants to know everything about him.

“I’m gonna wash up,” Keith says, and pushes himself up and out of his chair. “Do you wanna…watch ‘Garrison Varsity?’”

“Ooh, I love that show! Is that the one with that handsome Cuban actor? Amazing bod, cooks like Gordon Ramsey?”

“No, that guy’s annoying,” Keith grumbles, balancing his plates on his belly. Lance fights the urge to coo. “He talks too much and he cries all the time.”

“You didn’t say I _didn’t_ cook like Gordon Ramsey.”

“You don’t even cook in ‘Garrison Varsity!’ Not once in five seasons!”

“You’ve watched _all five seasons_? Keith – “

“No,” Keith says. “No, I didn’t. I hate that show. I hate you.”

“Who should I have ended up with? Since you watched it so much? Brilliant but poor Clara, or rich and cruel Dakotah?”

“Should’ve ended up in the trash. Should put you right in the dump where you belong.”

“ _Wow_. Wow. I can’t _believe_ this, what will our child say, what language are you teaching her, how _rude_ – “

“Start the damn show.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ultimately, it was always going to happen this way, and Keith’s not sure why he thought any differently.

He comes home from work on Friday to see Pidge sitting on his kitchen counter with a bag of white cheddar Cheetos in her lap, and Lance sitting on the couch facing her with a look of pure panic on his face.

Keith rubs his eyes. “Yeah, that tracks. I see you’ve met Pidge?” He gestures grandly at her.

“Oh, we’ve met,” Pidge answers gleefully. “We’re best friends now.”

“I’ve had stalkers before, I’m not scared of you.” Lance’s wide, terrified eyes say otherwise.

“Shut up,” she says, and he immediately shuts up. “Keith, when were you going to introduce me to your baby daddy? It’s like you don’t love me.”

“Never, cause I knew you were gonna pull this shit.”

“Rude,” she says, totally unoffended. “He’s much cuter in person. You were holding out on me.”

Keith’s not touching that with a ten-foot pole (because Lance _is_ looking cute today, in dark wash jeans and a blue t-shirt. Keith wants to do dumb things like curl up in his arms and bite his chest.) “How did you get in here?” He says instead. “How did you get up _there_? You’re like 80 months pregnant.”

“Mind over matter,” she says loftily. Lance catches Keith’s eye and mouths ‘step stool’. “As for the first question, your security is laughable and was no match for my Air Force lockpicking kit.”

“The Air Force makes lockpicking kits?” Lance wonders aloud.

“Are you here for anything specific or just to torment Lance?” Keith asks. “Cause if not, I am very hungry and he promised me burgers.”

“Ooh, burgers,” she says, eyes lighting up, and then shakes her head. “No, forget it, I’m here to kidnap you and take you to my parents’ for dinner.”

“Pidge – “

“ _Keith_. Come on, they have to meet him!”

“No, they don’t – “

“I don’t mind,” Lance says, and Pidge points a finger.

“Yes. Exactly. If you wanna be Keith’s lover, you gotta get with his friends. I’m his only friend. It me.”

“ _Pidge_ ,” he says, blushing, it feels, all the way down to his toes.

“You’re my only friend too, it’s okay,” she says calmly. “Come on, I know you guys don’t have any other plans, and it’s pork chop night!”

Lance looks to Keith – always checking in, always making sure he’s okay – and, well…Keith never really had a choice, did he?

“Alright,” he shrugs, and both Lance and Pidge cheer. He has a feeling a very dangerous friendship has begun tonight that will likely end in his utter embarrassment.

And it’s…it’s nice. Pidge isn’t just technology smart, she’s also generally smart, and Keith forgets that: tonight, she’s clearly prepped her family for Lance’s arrival, so there’s none of the ‘Oh my God it’s Lance McClain’ reactions they both hate so much. Instead, all three Holts are calm and gracious and treat Lance like an old friend they’ve known for years, and Keith is beyond grateful. For once he feels like he can just be with Lance, his dorky baby daddy who cooks and sings to reggaeton in the shower, instead of Lance McClain and whoever people want him to be.

(There’s one moment, where Colleen clearly remembers who’s in her kitchen – Sam is talking about the new Amazon Echo, and Lance confirms that he saw it in his friend Leo’s house and it actually works really well – it takes a moment but Colleen clutches her heart and mouths ‘ _DiCaprio?_ ’ before Pidge elbows her and she gets it together.)

So they eat pork chops and green beans, and Lance fits in at this table like he fits in everywhere, and Pidge sends Keith knowing glances over her apple juice that Keith ignores because it’s _not_ , and he knows it’s not, and Pidge should know that too – she’s making eyes like Lance is his…his _boyfriend_ , and he’s not, Lance is just the poor dude who knocked Keith up and he’s here because he’s a fundamentally good guy, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

Keith is _grateful_ for that. It’s more than he ever thought he’d get, that’s for sure.

Lance even gets to witness, in person, the exquisite humiliation of Keith and Pidge taking their weekly pregnancy wall photos. He lights up when Colleen suggests it, his cheeks flushed with all the wine he’s been drinking, and flat-out cheers when Keith gets up. This is Keith’s least favorite part of the dinner to begin with, especially as his bump has progressed from cute-curve to smuggling-a-basketball-out-of-the-YMCA and all of the accompanying pain and awkwardness that comes with that. He wants to hide under a blanket for the picture, especially hates turning to the side for the full profile, like this picture is going to remind Lance that he’s living with the human equivalent of a boat.

Except when he gets the courage to dart his eyes over at Lance during the picture, he doesn’t look disgusted or pitying. He looks…he’s smiling, warm and full, and when he meets Keith’s eyes he gives a thumb’s up.

Keith gives a weird smile in response. Colleen looks down at the view finder and raises her eyebrows at the picture she’s just taken. Keith doesn’t ask.

“Do you have a bunch of these?” Lance says. He’s already got last week’s picture in his hands; Keith, scowling in yet another stretched-out t-shirt, holding the little sign saying ’27 weeks’.

“Yeah, for a couple of months now.”

“Can I see them?”

“You want to?”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Lance says, slowly. “I haven’t…I missed it, you know, so I just want to…I don’t know. I want to see it.”

_Wants to see me, or just the baby growing_? Keith thinks. And then remembers, if it’s the baby – of course it’s the baby – that there’s an easier way for that then having to see Keith blowing up like a balloon. He’s got a doctor’s appointment next week, and Dr. Rosenthal mentioned that it’s time for another ultrasound.

Lance deserves to see the baby. He deserves to meet his daughter.

So later that night, when they’re lying in bed breathing in the same darkness, Keith whispers,

“What are you doing on Wednesday?”

“Umm…” Lance whispers back. “Nothing, I think. I’ll check but…I don’t think I have any meetings.”

“Okay. Do you want to come to the doctor’s with me? I’ve got a checkup.”

“Yes,” he replies instantly. “Yes, absolutely, I’ll be there.”

“It’s gonna be hard to keep you hidden, it’s in Culver City, really open – “

“Let me worry about that.” Lance reaches out to grab Keith’s hand, and Keith jerks in surprise. Lance quickly pulls it back, and Keith wants to scream, _No, come back, I was just surprised, please_. Lance clears his throat. “Umm, we’ll figure something out. I’ll be there, I promise.”

There’s nothing Keith wants more than to hold Lance’s hand again, to press all of his _thank yous_ and _I’m sorrys_ and _I’m gratefuls_ skin to skin. But the moment’s passed, he thinks, and now it would just be awkward. Conciliatory.

“Sounds good,” he whispers, lamely, and in his mind, Lance smiles back.

But it’s too dark to see.

 

* * *

 

 

The last thing Lance says before mysteriously disappearing on Wednesday morning is,

“Don’t take the bus. I’m sending someone. Just take the day off.”

So Keith calls out – again, damn, what is this boy doing to his sick leave, he’s gonna have no time left once the baby comes – and hangs out at home. At first it seems like a good opportunity to do some cleaning – double the people means double the mess – but he gets exhausted almost immediately from trying to maneuver the vacuum with his belly. He stops to breathe, hands on his lower back, trying to figure out why it feels like the baby is sitting right on his fucking lungs. So fuck cleaning, then. Lance can run a vacuum over this place.

Besides, he realizes, why was he trying to clean in the first place when he could’ve been using the time to _jerk off_.

He all but runs into the bedroom, throws himself down on the bed, and wiggles his sweatpants off. His sex drive took a nose dive around month six, because there’s nothing less sexy than trying to beat his meat when he can’t _see_ his dick, hasn’t seen it in months. But then Lance moved in, and started sleeping with him, and had to do really sexy things like sing along to Spanish songs and wear jeans that are tight on his endless legs and open jars with his massive hands and smile with his dimples and _exist_ in Keith’s _space_ and –

The angle’s terrible and Keith’s flushed with embarrassment but he gets a hand on his dick and starts pumping. He hisses with how good it feels, how long it’s been since he let himself do it, and doesn’t even try to stop himself from imagining Lance. Lance, wet and warm and flushed in the shower. Lance, kicking Keith’s knees open and taking him from behind. Lance, with his blue eyes and his fierce heart and his open mind, the way he treats Keith like he’s the best thing that ever happened to him instead of the worst. He comes with a strangled cry, folding up as much as possible, thinks that this is still more than he deserves, more than he’ll get. The idea of Lance pity-fucking him is more than he can bear, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Just breathes, and listens to his heart gallop as he comes down, and tries to just exist.

An hour later Keith is showered, and dressed in good clothes, and reading on the couch. He’s surprised when he gets a knock on his door instead of the call he was expecting.

When he opens the door, he sees one of the happiest looking humans he’s ever seen. He’s got a broad grin, sparkling eyes, a soft gray shirt under a navy blue sport coat. He’s tall and broad, and Keith thinks weirdly that he looks like he gives excellent hugs.

“Oh _man_ ,” he says, “you’re _here_ , I am _so_ excited, dude, you don’t even _know_.”

“Umm…”

“I’m Hunk,” he says, holding out a hand. “Lance didn’t tell you I was gonna be picking you up, did he? Super forgetful, I’m not surprised.”

“Hunk,” Keith repeats. _This_ is Hunk, Lance’s manager and best friend. For some reason Keith was picturing him stick-thin, like Lance, and maybe white. “Yeah, nice to meet you. I’m Keith.”

“Dude, I been knew,” Hunk says, shaking his hand. “You are literally all Lance talks about. I feel like I know your social security number and your blood type. I feel like I know you better than I know my own mom.”

Keith can’t help but blush. What the fuck is she supposed to say to that? He wants to hide under a blanket until his face calms down. “Uhh.”

Hunk is undeterred by Keith’s inability to speak English. “You had breakfast? You want coffee or anything before we go? I got Lance’s credit card, we can go crazy. Let’s get lobster. I’m kidding, it’s 10 am, I never have lobster before six.”

This feels a lot like talking to Lance, and that makes Keith smile. “You’re not his driver, though.”

“No, I’m not, but we’re still really hush-hush about the whole baby thing.” He makes a weird flailing motion towards Keith’s belly, which makes Keith snort. “And honestly Lance was never gonna let me meet you until I took matters into my own hands, so I volunteered.”

“Oh,” Keith says, heart sinking in his chest. So Lance _was_ ashamed of him. Of course he was, why wouldn’t he? Keith is a fucking orphan mechanic with a GED. Not exactly dream genetic material for your first-born child.

“What – oh, dude, _oh_. Not like that. Literally the opposite of that. He’s so fucking overprotective. And, like, he thinks you’re gonna bolt, so he’s, like, keeping you under wraps. He’s not, like – he’d tell the whole fucking world if he could. He’d put it on the cover of the New York Times.”

“Oh,” Keith says, and only that, because he can’t handle the emotional whiplash of this conversation. The way that his stupid heart keeps jumping up and down like a pogo stick. “Yeah, okay. So, uh, I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Great!” Hunk says, politely ignoring Keith’s abrupt change of subject. “Let’s roll.”

They climb into a sleek black car, which Keith only recognizes as a Ferrari once he sees the name on the dash (he knows bikes, not cars). “Is this Lance’s?”

“One of his, yeah. Much less flash than the Aston, better for undercover work.”

“…Oh.”

“Did I freak you out again? I’m sorry, man. Lance is the worst rich person in the world. He drops tons of money on Goldfish and one time asked me how to spell Versace. I promise, any swagger you see is artificially installed by me or his stylist.”

“How long have you worked with Lance?”

“Three years now, since we graduated high school. It’s like herding cats. But, like, one very hyper cat, with terrible ideas. Terrible ideas that end with me shirtless in Martin Scorsese’s house, having to apologize to Uma Thurman cause Lance peed on her bonsai.”

“Did the bonsai deserve it?”

“Absolutely, no question,” Hunk says.

Keith cracks a grin, staring out the window as sunshiny LA rolls by outside. Hunk’s a good driver, calm and steady, and an even better conversationalist. He’s got the same skill Lance has, where he’s effortlessly charming; must be the business, all the years of schmoozing and socializing and, apparently, apologizing. Keith gets the burning desire to ask Hunk something about Lance, cause it feels like he’ll tell Keith anything, but the only question that’s really on his mind is _What is up with Allura Altea_? He can’t, though, he’s too terrified of the answer, doesn’t want to spend this doctor’s visit crying every time he looks at Lance. Instead, he says,

“How would this work? Like, with the movies?”

“What, like how does Lance’s schedule work?”

Keith nods. “He was gone for months.”

“Yeah, that does happen. But it can be avoided. Lots of movies are shot entirely on soundstages here in LA. If he gets back into television – which is something we were talking about, even before you got pregnant – that’s a lot easier, there’s normally just a studio set and it’s pretty stationery. Or he does commercials for a while until you’re out of the danger zone, God knows I’ve got about 80 endorsement offers on my desk right now, he can take his pick. So I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s a weird job, yeah, but it doesn’t mean he can’t have a family. Plenty of people do, even directors.”

Keith nods and traces a hand over his belly, basking in the relief of one question answered.

They come in the regular entrance, the one Keith always uses, and everything’s exactly the same except for Hunk leaving to go talk to someone once Keith goes into the room for his appointment. He sits on the bed, paper gown crinkling like it always does, hands clenched in his lap. Dr. Rosenthal comes in, eyes on her folder, calm as ever.

“Good morning, Keith,” she says. “Thought we were gonna have a friend join us today? That’s what the receptionist said.”

“Uh, we will, he’s just running late,” Keith says. “Uh…have they had you sign an NDA?”

“Keith, everything we say in here is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality,” she says, eyebrows raised above her glasses. “I promise, there’s no need for an NDA for anything we say in here.”

“Uh,” Keith says again, just when the door opens and Lance walks in.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry I’m late, traffic was awful and we had to take the secret entrance, it was a whole thing.” He gives Keith a quick hug and turns to Dr. Rosenthal with a smile. “Hi, I’m Lance, nice to meet you.”

Dr. Rosenthal’s still calm as ever, but there’s a panic in her eyes that’s hysterical to watch. “Hello, Lance,” she says slowly, reaching out to shake his hand. “Lance McClain,” she adds, unable to help herself.

“That’s me,” Lance says brightly. God, this poor boy is so used to hearing this. Keith didn’t realize until they started living together.

“It’s…it’s very exciting that Keith’s got a friend who could come.”

“Oh, uh, I’m not a friend. Well, I mean, I _am_ , we are friends, just…I’m also, you know. The dad.”

Dr. Rosenthal is silent. One second. Two seconds.

She looks at Keith, like _How the fuck did you sleep with Lance McClain_? Keith shrugs. He’s got no clue himself.

“Okay,” she says, and he watches her shake herself back into work mode. “Okay. Awesome. Let’s talk about the baby.”

“Yes, please,” Keith says.

She takes a look down at her chart. “So, all of this looks good…blood pressure good, your weight gain looks good – “

Keith flushes so hot he’s sure his face could be used as a hibachi grill. “Don’t,” he mutters, darting a glance at Lance.

“Keith,” Dr. Rosenthal says, “When you grow another human in your body, they are in fact made of something more solid than air, so they do, in fact, weight something. We have this talk every time, this is the first week you’ve actually been on track instead of underweight.”

Keith could _die_. He could combust into literal flames. He looks down at his lap – his belly, really, he hasn’t seen his lap in months – and rues the day that he decided to bring his very famous, very attractive movie star baby daddy to the appointment where they tell him he’s finally _fat_ , that’s it, he’s wearing nothing but muumuus until this fucking baby is out of him – and jerks in surprise when a warm hand fits back into his.

“Hey.” It’s Lance. He smiles, not letting Keith duck his head again, keeping eye contact like it’s the last important thing on Earth. “You look great, babe. Don’t worry about it.”

Oh, wow, Keith’s gonna die for a whole different reason. He wants to save Lance saying ‘babe’ so he can play it on a loop, put it as his ringtone like it’s 2003. _Babe_. Fuck, how is he supposed to respond to that?

He doesn’t, because he’s Keith, just breaks eye contact and looks at his lap. When he looks up again, an indeterminate amount of time later, Dr. Rosenthal’s face is showing a very weird combination of fond and totally baffled.

“ _Okay_ ,” she says. “So, let’s talk. How are you feeling?”

Keith tells her, honestly, that he’s way more tired and way more off-balance than he was before. He’s out of breath all the time and can’t stand for too long. Dr. Rosenthal asks about paternity leave.

“I get time, kinda. I’ve been saving up sick time too. I just don’t want to use it all now before she’s even here,” he explains. He looks over at Lance to find him confused, his eyebrows scrunched together. What could be confusing about this? “So, you know. I’m gonna go until I physically can’t.”

“Well, you’ve got a very physically demanding job, so ‘until you physically can’t’ is probably going to be 36 weeks.” Keith makes a face but Dr. Rosenthal is unfazed. “It could be worse. You’re lucky bed rest isn’t prescribed anymore.”

Keith’s disgusted face deepens, and Lance laughs. “Oh my God, I can’t see that. You don’t even sleep in, you couldn’t stay in bed all day.”

“I could,” Keith mutters, and he’s not sure when this became a contest.

“Sure, babe,” Lance says fondly. _Babe_. Again. Oh my God. Why was he _doing_ this, did he want Keith to burst into flames?

Dr. Rosenthal’s eyes had gone a little moony, but she got herself back. They went through the rest of Keith’s current medical woes and took some blood, and she directed him to lie down and lift the gown up so she could palpate his belly. Lance stares at Keith’s stomach with wide eyes, and Keith looks up at the ceiling and prays to every deity in human existence for a miraculous vanishing of his stretch marks and stupid popped-out navel.

“Is that normal?” Lance says, because of course the idiot has to comment on his belly button.

“Oh, yeah,” Dr. Rosenthal says calmly. She places her gloved hands on either side of his belly and starts pushing, very lightly. “Lots of pressure, you know, pops it out. Lots more bulk.” _Bulk_ , she says, oh _God._

“Is it ticklish?” Lance says, and _touches it_.

Keith yelps and squirms away. “ _Lance!_ ”

“Gonna go with a yes,” Lance says gleefully.

“Well now you’ve woken her up,” Keith grumbles.

“She’s strong,” Dr. Rosenthal says, as she puts her hands back on Keith’s belly. “Good kicks.”

“Of course she’s strong,” Lance says calmly. “She’s our kid.” Like it’s that easy. Like that’s all the baby needs in life – to be strong, to have two parents. Shit, maybe it is, in the world of Lance McClain.

Next they’re visited by the eternally optimistic ultrasound tech with the cart. Marlena – Keith’s learned her name, now, after quite a few of these scans – Marlena and Lance get on like a house on fire. Marlena is awestruck by Lance for approximately one minute and then proceeds to ask about more-famous famous people. Lance regales her with stories about Will Smith and Tina Fey and one, from afar, Michelle Obama, while Marlena squeals and Keith looks at them amusedly while he’s laid back. When she raises his gown and starts to rub the gel on, Lance is fascinated again.

“So we’re actually gonna see her,” he says, leaning forward in his seat.

“No, the other baby in my stomach,” Keith says. He hisses when the gel hits his belly, and Marlena shushes him soothingly.

“Don’t even joke about twins,” Lance says. “I’m rich but I’m not that rich. Wait, can we get one of the 3D ones where you see their faces?”

“No, they’re creepy,” Keith says.

“ _What_? Keith – “

“You’re gonna see her in 10 weeks, you bozo, what do you need to see her face for now?”

Lance opens his mouth, probably for a clever retort, but Marlena shifts the wand just so, and all the words in the room die.

“There she is,” Marlena says. “There’s the little lady.”

She’s so big; Keith somehow expects, every time, that he’ll see the same tiny peanut he saw that first time. But she’s a whole person now, with the shadowy outline of fingers and the ridge of her nose and her big, alien head. It’s an avalanche, seeing her, alive and warm and safe, no clue about all the drama going on around and about her. He wants, for a crazy moment, to keep her inside; to keep her safe from everything that’s gonna happen, all the furor from people inevitably finding out about the circumstances of her conception. He doesn’t want her to live with that; at least inside of him, she’s safe.

But then he looks over at Lance’s starstruck face, and his wish dies.

She’d be safe inside of him, sure. But she’d also never meet Lance.

“That’s…that’s her?” He says.

“Yup,” Marlena says warmly, moving the wand so they get angles. “That’s her.”

“She’s, like…this is live inside Keith, right now?” He gestures weirdly at Keith’s bared belly.

“Live feed,” Marlena replies patiently.

“I know it’s weird,” Keith says. He’s half-naked and they’re looking at the living human inside of him. It’s fucking weird. It’s as weird as it gets.

“It’s not weird. I mean, it is, yeah, but, like…” Lance’s eyes are so wide Keith can see the black and white reflection of the ultrasound in his eyes. “That’s our baby. That’s my _daughter_.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, not taking his eyes off Lance.

“She’s, like, wiggling,” he says.

“Just a bit.” Keith can feel her; not gut-punch kicks, but soft nudges and little twitches. Slow and calm, like the rocking of a boat. “You can try to feel.”

Lance reaches down to the small parts of Keith’s belly that aren’t covered in gel. She shifts, obligingly, and Lance’s eyes widen even more.

Then he starts crying.

“Lance,” Keith says in alarm.

“I can feel her,” he says, voice thick and teary. He swipes a hand under his nose. “She’s there. I can _feel_ her.”

“Aww, I love the criers,” Marlena says.

“Well you’re gonna love him,” Keith replies, and Lance manages a giggly smile.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…this is like the best moment of my life? Like I’m so happy I feel like I could explode with it. God, Keith, this is _amazing_.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, and winces. Wow, he is _terrible_ at expressing emotion. Or, he’s great at being angry and frustrated and sad; not as great at reacting honestly to the father of his child crying as he sees her for the first time. Not as easy. Can’t just say ‘fuck’ and go for a long motorcycle ride to deal with this particular emotion.

Lance doesn’t seem to care about Keith’s emotional retardation. “I told you I was gonna cry a lot,” he says with a sheepish smile.

“It’s okay,” Keith says. “It’s fine. You warned me.”

“We need to think of names,” Lance says absentmindedly, looking at the screen.

Keith has a mini heart attack, because this is week 30 and this is the first time he’s thought that this kid needs a name.

“ _Fuck_ me,” he says emphatically.

Lance bursts out laughing.

“Too late,” he says, with a meaningful look at Keith’s belly.

Marlena snorts, trying to stifle her laughter behind her hand, and Keith reaches out to half-heartedly slap at Lance’s arm. Lance whispers ‘I’m sorry’ and clearly doesn’t mean it. The sun shines through the windows and Keith’s daughter is happy and healthy inside of him, and Keith thinks,

_I was doing fine before. I was doing okay on my own._

_But this is way better with Lance._

 

* * *

 

 

The call comes in the middle of the night. It takes Keith a good thirty seconds to drag himself out of sleep, decide that the ringing won’t go away if he ignores it, and fumble around until he finds the phone. When he sees Colleen Holt’s name on the phone, though, he’s wide awake. This could only mean one thing.

“Hello?”

“Keith,” she says, voice tight. “Hi. I’m so sorry to wake you. But Pidge is in labor.”

“She’s too early,” Keith says, flicking the light. Beside him, Lance twitches awake. “She’s only 32 weeks, she’s too early.”

“I know, she’s definitely too early, but the baby’s scans are coming back just fine and the doctors say trying to stop it would be more dangerous at this point. Apparently she was having contractions most of the day and only just told us a few hours ago.”

“Typical,” Keith says, and it startles a weak laugh out of Colleen. “Okay, we’ll be there. Soon as we can.”

“Great, okay. _Thank_ you, Keith,” she says, and Keith has to hang up because there is so much emotion in her voice he has to turn away before it drowns him.

Lance is looking at him with rumpled hair and eyes that are shining like marbles. “Pidge is in labor?”

Keith nods and hauls himself out of bed.

“She’s too early, right? She’s only like two weeks ahead of you, isn’t that too early?”

“It’s definitely too early, but it’s happening, so. Pidge isn’t really a fan of following the rules so I shouldn’t be surprised this is happening now.” He walks over to the dresser and starts pulling out clothes. He turns to Lance, on the verge of asking him if he’ll call a car for them, before realizing this is a huge assumption and who even said Lance wants to go to the hospital? He’s met Pidge once. “Um, I can go…if you want to stay…in case you’ve got, like, meetings, or…”

Lance is looking at him like he’s grown a second head. “Don’t be stupid, babe,” he says, already grabbing his jeans. “There’s literally nowhere else I’d be. I’m gonna grab us some snacks and then we’ll hit the road, okay?”

He heads to the kitchen without waiting for an answer. Keith stares after him and knows it’s happening. He’s gonna fall in love with Lance McClain like a hundred thousand other people in this world and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Lance calls a black car from one of his usual drivers, a very nice man named Jason. It’s eleven at night and they’re headed to a middling hospital in Culver City, not Bel-Air, so Keith thinks for once they don’t have to worry about getting papped. Just like that first night at the Ritz-Carleton, Lance walks through the hospital like he owns it, making no eye contact and brokering no questions. They don’t get stopped once on their way to the maternity ward on the third floor.

Down the end of the hall, Matt is hunched over on a chair, bleary frown on his face as he types at a computer. When he sees Lance and Keith, it visibly takes him a minute to recognize them.

“Guys,” he says with a smile. “Shit, I’m glad to see you.”

“She okay?” Keith says, giving him a hug.

“Yeah, fine. Or, well, not fine, but as good as can be expected. Mom and Dad are in there with her, but it’s gonna be a long night so I thought I’d maybe get some work done. Which sucks,” he says with an awful, sad little smile, “cause Pidge is the _best_ at this stuff, this sub-function coding I’m doing, but it’s not…I can’t exactly ask her right now, can I?”

Keith has no idea what to say to that. Lance rubs a hand over Matt’s shoulders, and he looks grateful for the touch.

“You should go in and see her,” he says. “I think she’d really love to see you.”

Keith smiles at that, and they head inside.

The fluorescent lights are dimmed in here, just enough to make Keith’s eyes adjust; like they tried to create a sense of comfort in this awful hospital room. Colleen sits by the side of the bed and Sam’s in a chair against the wall. There’s a softly beeping machine and a pole with an IV bag, and lying covered in blankets, dwarfed by the big hospital bed, is a tired Pidge.

She looks up at them and relief breaks across her face like a wave. “Keith,” she says, planting her hands to try and sit up.

Keith doesn’t let her; he hustles over and bends down for the most awkward, most necessary hug of his life. He rubs her back and hair simultaneously and she smashes her face in his chest and he can feel her tremble, like her bones are shaking from the inside. He pulls away after an eternity to look at her and finds her far more tired than he thought; red-faced, drawn, her glasses magnifying the thin, pale skin around her eyes. She’s his prophecy, and she’s at the end of the line.

They don’t say anything for far too long, but Keith doesn’t really know what to say. He’s only been awake for twenty minutes now, he doesn’t have the bandwidth for this kind of emotion yet. All he knows is that she’s his person; before Lance came back they were all he each other had, the only ports in the storm, the two most miserable pregnant people on the planet who found each other by dumb luck and Zelda. He’s _so_ fucking proud of her already, because she’s a warrior, but seeing her like this, exhausted to the bone but with bright eyes and her fierce mouth, like she’s scared of nothing…he swallows against the lungs in his throat.

She doesn’t need him to say it. She smiles, cause she knows.

So instead he says,

“You absolute _dumbass_. Who has contractions for a whole day and doesn’t tell anyone?”

She grins lopsidedly. “Wasn’t any worse than period cramps.”

“You _idiot_ ,” he says fondly. “Fucking moron.”

By the bedside, Colleen quirks a grin, momentarily vanishing the terror in her eyes.

Pidge waves at Lance, who’s been hiding unsuccessfully behind Keith this whole time. “Hello, Lance McClain. My new bestie.”

“What? Who? I don’t know a Lance,” he babbles, coming up to the bed to give her a hug. “My name is Rodrigo, I followed beautiful Keith here, who is Lance?”

“Lance, shut up,” Keith says, as Lance proceeds to hug every member of the Holt family.

“Yeah, okay, I’m sorry, I ramble when I’m nervous. How _are_ you? What’s, like, up?”

“My vagina is slowly expanding, and eventually I will have a four-inch hole in my body from which I will expel a living human,” she says, dry as the Sahara. “That’s what’s up.”

Lance is very, very red. Keith thinks it’s a nice change of pace, to not be the one blushing. “Oh. Wow. Yeah.”

“Katie,” her mom scolds.

“What? It’s true.”

“How many centimeters are you?” Keith asks.

“Just hit five, last she checked.” Pidge’s smile slips. “Still got a while to go.”

“You should sleep,” Colleen says. “While you’ve got the chance.”

“I’m going to, I just had to say hi to Lance and Keith, they can hang out with Matt while I – while I, uh – “

She grits her teeth, eyes slipping closed, and it takes far too long for Keith to realize she’s having a contraction. It’s so quiet; every stupid sitcom he’s watched showed yelling and screaming and squeezing hands, but Pidge just breathes like she’s pulling air in through a mask, face clenched, arms braced. Colleen pushes her hair off her face, but it seems more for her comfort than for Pidge’s.

It lasts a good while, long enough for Keith to wonder if it’ll ever break; when it does, it’s like the puppet strings have been cut, and she lays her shoulders back on the pillow, face relaxing.

“Sorry,” she says, in a small voice. “Where was I? Berating my parents?”

“Shouldn’t you have an epidural by now?” Keith asks instead. “Five centimeters, isn’t that dilated enough?”

Colleen makes a small, weird noise and Pidge says, “I’m not getting an epidural.”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me. I’m not getting an epidural.” Her voice is calm, body still limp against the bed, but there’s no room for argument in her voice.

“ _Seriously_?”

“It’s her choice,” Lance says diplomatically, and Colleen and Sam nod.

“But I don’t _get_ it,” Keith says. “You _love_ modern medicine. You told me people who don’t vaccinate their kids should get euthanized. You said you’d pay your doctor to live in your house. One time you told me you’d rather die than live without ibuprofen, you – why wouldn’t you get an epidural?”

“This has nothing to do with any of that.” She’s fierce now, tougher than any man, with her eyes on fire and her hand resting on the blanket-covered swell of her belly. “This is the only child I’ll ever give birth to. The only one. So I want to feel everything. It’s my choice, and I want to feel every second of bringing a child into this world.”

And Keith has nothing to say to that. Her mother holds her hand, and the beeping machines give voice where none of them can.

Pidge kicks everyone out so she can sleep before active labor kicks in. Sam goes out to work with Matt, Colleen heads outside to call people with updates, and Keith and Lance go for a walk. It’s quiet and aimless, just a slow mosey through dark hospital corridors, talking only in murmurs, about nothing at all. Eventually Keith’s back starts to ache, and they find a couple of stiff chairs outside the silent, darkened physical therapy ward. Lance digs some slightly smushed granola bars out of his pocket and they eat in contented silence.

“Are you okay?” Lance asks after a while.

Keith looks up at him. “Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, I mean, _I’m_ kinda freaked out and I’m not even the one doing anything, I feel like…if I were you, I’d be fucking shitting myself.”

“I mean…” Keith sighs, adjusts himself in this horribly uncomfortable chair. “I’m kinda freaked, yeah. Of course. But it doesn’t do me any good to lose my shit. She’s gonna come out, so I can panic about it, or I can just…do it.”

“That’s…” Lance shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s so badass.”

“I’ve had almost eight months to get used to it,” Keith replies with a smile.

Lance nods, finishes eating his granola. He’s mid-bite when he freezes, looks over at Keith with a petrified expression.

“What?”

He swallows. “This is…like, a _really_ dumb question…”

“Oh, good.”

“But…does the baby come out…the same way she went in?”

Keith stares at him for a solid five seconds.

“Are you asking if I’m giving birth through my ass?”

“ _Yes!_ I mean, like yes are you, or no – ?”

“No, Lance, she’s not coming out of my ass.”

Lance visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank God,” he mutters.

“There’s a canal. It’ll form in the last couple of weeks, just like a temporary passage between my dick and my ass where the baby’ll come out. It’s normally painless, I heard, just uncomfortable when it forms, but it can cause problems if men go into labor early. If I drop at 32 weeks like Pidge, I’d get a c-section. Nowhere else for her to come out.”

“Are you? Gonna drop early?”

“There’s no way to know for sure,” Keith says softly, recognizing the panic in Lance’s voice for what it is. “But Dr. Rosenthal says I’m in good health and everything looks fine. And if I do go early, we’ll deal with it. It’s not the end of the world.”

Lance stares at him with so much trust, like Keith’s just given him all the reassurance he needs that his daughter won’t be born early. Keith almost wants to put a disclaimer on his words, because fuck if he knows what could go wrong. But in the end he doesn’t say anything. Maybe speaking good into the universe means you’ll get good out.

“Okay,” Lance says with a nod. “Okay. That’s…I’ll deal with that when/if it happens, I guess? If you – “ He blanches, widens his eyes. “If you want me there, I mean, if you’re comfortable with it, I can, I can wait outside, if you want – “

Oh, this sweet, sweet man. Now it’s Keith’s turn to say.

“There’s literally nowhere else I’d want you to be.”

Lance grins with all his teeth, joy on his face. If you’d asked Keith when he first got pregnant who’d be in the delivery room, he’d have said no one. No one in this world, no matter how much he loved Shiro and Adam, needed to be in the room seeing him that vulnerable, in that much pain.

It’s funny, really, how many rules he’s broken for Lance, how many he’s sure he’ll break in the future. He finds he doesn’t mind the disruption of his whole world as much as he thought, just as long as it’s Lance doing the disrupting.

Not long after that, still talking in that weird midnight waiting room, Keith starts getting sleepy. The adrenaline of the wake-up call is worn off, and the baby is quiet for once. He starts yawning, shifting to try and get more comfortable in this stupid chair when he’s got a bowling ball on his pelvis.

“It’s okay,” Lance says softly. “You can sleep. I’ll wake you up if something happens.”

“Okay,” Keith says, not questioning, because Lance is warm and steady beside him. He leans his head over onto Lance’s bony shoulder, smushes his cheek around until he gets in a comfy position, and is on the verge of telling Lance to stop working out and gain some weight so he can be a proper pillow when he drops instantly into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s de ja vu; Keith’s phone ringing pulls him once again out of sleep. It’s Sam, letting them know that Pidge is about to start pushing and this is their last chance to see her before active labor. They trek back up to the maternity ward, and this time Lance opts to stay outside with Matt while Keith goes inside. Lance made a good call; Pidge is in a hell of a lot more pain now, curled up on her side sweating and shaking. Colleen keeps stroking her hair, making soft noises. Pidge looks up at Keith with bloodshot eyes, hair plastered to her forehead.

“Fuck,” she whispers, “this _hurts_ ,” and his heart breaks.

“I know,” he says, even though he doesn’t. “It’s almost over though?”

“It’s _not_ , it’s just starting, fuck – “

“Pushing is better,” Colleen says. “Trust me. Doing something is much better than sitting in pain. You’ll have a purpose.”

“God _damn_ , see this is why there’s no such thing as intelligent design, no all-knowing and benevolent God would choose this method of procreation, it’s inhumane and inefficient. _Ouch_ , the ball, can I get on the ball?” She trails off with a moan.

It takes Sam and Colleen to get her up, each one holding an arm as they maneuver her out of bed and onto an exercise ball. She hisses as she’s lowered down, face scrunched up, but relaxes when she’s settled, rocking back and forth just slightly. One hand stays braced on the bed, the other on her belly under the gown.

“Pro tip,” she says to Keith, voice tight, “exercise ball. Good stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith says, even though the only thing on his mind is how quickly he’s getting an epidural when it’s his turn.

Pidge breathes on the exercise ball, rocking through her next contraction, which seems to come right on top of the last one. The doctor comes in – not Dr. Rosenthal, someone else, a chubby woman with brisk steps who’s snapping on gloves.

“Alright, kiddo, think it’s showtime?”

“I think it’s been showtime,” she says, strained.

“Let’s get you back on the bed and we’ll check it out.”

“I’m gonna head out,” Keith says, because as curious as he is about the mechanics of labor he gets the feeling Pidge doesn’t need him in the actual room. “But I’ll be right outside, okay?”

“Yeah, go,” she says, and reaches up to hug up. “Last awkward belly hug,” she says, and he grins.

“We’ll look like humans again, instead of potatoes.”

“Oh, the joy,” she says, as her parents come over to help her back off. There’s a lot of motion, as a nurse comes into the room too, so Keith takes his leave quietly. The last thing he sees, when he turns around at the door, is Pidge’s young face, steely and fierce, as the doctor leans over.

Lance and Matt are still waiting outside. Keith lowers into the chair next to Lance and he drops a hand onto Keith’s thigh.

“Go time?”

“Something like that. I’m getting an epidural. I just want that said now. I respect her choice, that’s badass, but I want an epidural.”

“Yeah, not gonna fight you on that one, buddy,” Lance says. “Hungry?”

“Literally always.”

They field trip with Matt to the hospital cafeteria, indulge in stale turkey sandwiches wrapped in plastic and tiny bags of chips. The checkout lady recognizes Lance, clearly, but doesn’t say anything – she just stares and stares as he checks out. Lance and Keith share a look while they’re sitting down, because really, they’ve been absolutely reckless all night. Just because the Holts don’t care that Lance is famous doesn’t mean their safe little bubble extends to everyone. Lance doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t suggest that they try to hide out, find a different room or anything, and Keith follows suit. He’s not sure what to do, what can be done, and he doesn’t want to lose this. He’s got a tenuous grasp on tonight as it is; having to grapple with the reality of how famous his baby daddy is might send him over the edge.

Matt has a deck of cards in his bag, so Lance and Keith play while Matt works on Air Force stuff on his computer. Keith only knows solitaire and Lance only knows Egyptian corkscrew, so it’s really more of a teaching experience than anything. Around three AM, only forty minutes or so after they went downstairs, Matt’s phone starts buzzing, and they all immediately whip around to stare at it.

“Is it – “ Lance says, as Matt lunges for it. His face when he picks up is all the answer they need.

“Oh my God,” Lance says, as Keith’s heart spikes and he scrambles to stuff the cards back in the box. “Oh my God, oh my God – “

“They’re good? Both of them?” Matt says as he shuts his computer. “Shit, that’s great. Yeah, we’re coming up now. Yeah, right now, Mom, I’ll see you soon. She’s crying already,” he says to Lance and Keith, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “I don’t know what I expected.”

“She’s really had a baby,” Lance says. After so many hours of non-action, it feels surreal to be rushing through the hospital like this. “She’s really un-pregnanted.”

“ _Do not_ use that word when we have a baby,” Keith says.

“Copy that, evil word.”

There’s a mild shuffle at the door, as Lance and Keith hesitate to let Matt go first and he attempts to do the same, but it’s finally Keith who pushes the door open finds the most amazing sight in the world.

Colleen and Sam are there, and the doctors and nurses and all the beeping machines, but the only thing Keith sees is Pidge. She’s back in the bed, somehow flushed and pale at the same time, hair a mess, still so dwarfed by the hospital bed. There’s no mound of blankets over her stomach, but there is a teeny bundle of blankets in her arms, and it’s that bundle – so small, it almost looks empty – that draws all the energy in the room.

When she sees them she smiles, exhausted and proud.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hey,” Matt says, walking closer. “Heard you were a boss.”

“Yeah,” she says with a laugh. “Yeah, uh. Can’t deny that.”

“Is that – ?” He leans over, and Keith and Lance lean in.

Her whole face softens, cheeks dimpling in a smile. “This,” she says, voice tender, “is my baby.”

Her fingers inch up to pull the blanket back, and Keith’s breath hitches at the tiny, scrunched-up face, the little red nose, perfect miniature lips and squeezed-tight eyes. The baby twitches, shifting in her arms, and Keith’s heart melts into a puddle.

“Oh, Pidge,” Matt whispers. “Oh my God, how precious.”

“I know,” she says, and hitches the baby up to press a kiss to the little knit cap. “He’s perfect.”

“He?” Keith says, the first thing he’s said. He notices Lance’s hand is in his. He has no idea how long it’s been there. He squeezes, and Lance squeezes back.

“His sex is male,” Pidge answers, flicking a glance at her parents sitting tiredly in the chairs, “but we’ll see what he identifies as, gender-wise. Too early to tell, so for now he/him pronouns will be fine.”

Keith can’t help but grin, thinking back to their first conversation when he was vomiting in a ficus. “You’re such a good mom,” he says, and her whole face turns bright red.

“Fuck,” she says, clutching the baby. “I’m a mom. Fuck.”

“Great start,” Lance says, and the room chuckles.

The nurse walks over with a bassinet and Pidge immediately clutches the baby tighter. “Do you need to take him? Already?”

“In a few minutes,” she says apologetically. “He looks great but we want to run a few more tests, make sure he’s okay for being a little preemie. We’ll get him under the incubator too, he’s probably a little cold since he’s not as chubby as a full-term baby would be.”

Pidge nods, rubbing her baby instinctively. She’s so young, Keith thinks. He wonders when he’ll ever stop thinking that. “Okay,” she says, way calmer than Keith would be in this situation. “Alright. Can they hold him first? Before you take him?”

“Absolutely.”

So the baby gets passed around like the warmest, sleepiest basketball. Colleen cries, of course, and Sam too, because deep down he’s much more of a sap than she is, and Matt takes an incredibly awkward selfie with his nephew while Lance spots him so he won’t drop the baby. Keith takes this tiny newborn life in his hands and thinks of joy out of pain, thinks of Pidge sobbing on her couch and sitting here now with her baby, thinks of resilience and hearts of steel that still possess the capacity for new love, and knows that in just a few weeks he’ll be here too and his only wish is to half as well as she did.

When Lance takes his turn, Pidge starts laughing. “I’m sorry,” she says, at their confused looks. “But I just had a baby, and Lance McClain is holding him. Lance McClain is dating my best friend, and right now he’s holding my son. It just…it proves the multiverse theory, is all I’m saying.”

Lance gives a small, self-deprecating laugh, and hefts the baby up in his arms to nuzzle at him. The sight makes something inside Keith smolder and crumble. “Well, Lance McClain is pretty excited to be in this universe with you and your baby. Cause this is amazing, Pidge. He’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

“Thanks, Lance,” she says, taking off her glasses to rub at her eyes. When she looks back up, her eyes seem so small, not magnified by her glasses. She smiles. “I know.”

The NICU nurse comes back, and Lance reluctantly surrenders the baby to her bassinette. Pidge is yawning, eyes blinking like there’s anvils attached to them, so Keith and Lance take their leave. Keith whispers in her ear that he’s so proud of her, that she’s the bravest person he knows, everything he never says, and she cries quietly, little wet splotches of heat on his shirt, and says nothing, just gives a watery smile. They give hugs to all the assembled Holts and Lance calls a car. It’s four in the morning when they stumble out to the dark street, and when Lance suggests that Keith call out sick for the first couple hours of the day, he can’t find it in himself to disagree.

Lance holds his hand in the back seat of the car. It’s like breathing; Keith doesn’t even think about it, and it feels right.

“Hey, I’m gonna drop you off first, if that’s okay,” Lance says softly. His face glows yellow with each passing streetlight. “I’ve got a super early meeting so I’m gonna stay at my place so I don’t wake you up. I’ll be back for dinner, though. I was thinking enchiladas?”

“Enchiladas sound great,” Keith says. When the car drops him off, he leans over and hugs Lance, melting into the curve of his shoulder, shivering with each sweep of Lance’s fingers over his back. He lets himself in, gets ready for bed, and it isn’t even until he’s lying in his bed that he realizes what’s just happened. Lance left the apartment for the night, for the first time since he found out Keith was pregnant. The stakeout is over. If Keith wanted, he could change the locks and keep him out, do what he wanted to do when Lance first moved in here.

He doesn’t want that. It’s as simple and as complex as that. He wants Lance to come home and make enchiladas. And he will, of that Keith has no doubt. He will, because whatever it is he and Keith have going for them, it’s something good.

He plugs his phone in and prepares for a good couple hours of sleep.

For the third time in a row, it doesn’t happen.

Barely an hour later, his phone drags him out of sleep, and he moans at the pulsing headache that’s threatening to jackhammer his temples. He blinks at his phone and realizes there’s a lot more notifications than usual, missed calls and texts and People Magazine push notifications. He swipes up on Lance’s call, while still lying on his pillow, and croaks, “Hello?”

“Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

 

* * *

 

 

_Breaking: Lance McClain Spotted at LA Hospital with Mystery Pregnant Man_ By Nyma Van Dyne

_Updating Live: Lance McClain was photographed in the small hours of the morning entering and leaving Mercy General Hospital with a mysterious pregnant man. Fan cameras caught the pair arriving in a black car at eleven PM, and People photographers captured them leaving around four AM. McClain, 21, was dressed down in sweatpants and a t-shirt; the mysterious stranger wore a hoodie and jeans over his significant baby bump (see pictures below). No information exists yet on the pregnant stranger or his relationship to Lance McClain. He has never been seen before with the actor, and it is unclear if he is expecting McClain’s child or someone else’s. Representatives for Lance McClain have been contacted for a comment._

_Is Lance McClain about to become a daddy? What do you think? Let us know in the comments!_

Keith reads the article on his phone, the tiny rectangle the only light in the room, with his stomach somewhere by his knees and his heart galloping in his chest. The baby, roused by the adrenaline, is shifting restlessly, giving Keith one more good reason to throw up.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “ _Fuck_.”

Lance gives a short, humorless laugh over the phone. “Yeah,” he says. “Fuck.”

“How did they - ?”

“I don’t know. Could’ve been anybody. Could’ve been the nurses, someone in the halls, the cafeteria lady. Someone puts it on their Facebook, People gets hold, they come with cameras…it could’ve been anyone. It doesn’t matter who did it, it’s out now.”

“But it’s just one site – “

“It’s not one site.” He’s never heard Lance sound like this – bitter, dejected. Shrouds instead of sunshine in his voice. “It’s all of them. Every gossip site. Fuck, it made the _New York Times_. The back pages, but still.”

Keith thinks, for an awful moment, that he’s gonna pass out.

“What do we do?” He whispers.

Lance sighs. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“We? Who’s we? Where are you?”

“I had an early meeting, remember? I’m at my management company’s office. We had just gotten started with our normal business when the story broke. Everyone’s come here, all the studio execs and my PR people and their PR people and all the legal people and…”

Keith realizes, just now, that it’s not just the pregnancy that’s public now. Lance just got outed. Not confirmed yet, but he doubts all those people – all the studio people and PR people and lawyers – would be there if the consensus online was that Lance was just helping out a friend at the hospital. The fans online must have figured it out.

“Are they pissed?” He asks tentatively.

Lance sighs, and it seems to last a lifetime. It’s quiet in the background, but it sounds like the dead quiet of an empty hallway or a quiet room, so he must’ve stepped away. “They’re…not happy. Let’s say that.”

“Lance,” Keith says helplessly.

“You’re gonna have to come in.”

“What?”

“You have to come in.” Lance sounds like he’s about to cry. “Now, actually. You have to come in. We need you here. Figure out next steps.”

“You want me to go there?” To a room full of Hollywood executives who will hate him, the tramp who’s responsible for outing Lance McClain, the slut who wouldn’t get an abortion and kept the pregnancy a secret for seven months? The whore who ruined the life of their precious, straight Lance McClain?

Now Keith thinks he’s going to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Lance says, uselessly. “Fuck, I’m sorry. But we have to have you here, we’re trying to figure out what to do and we need – “

“I’ll come,” Keith interrupts. “Jesus. Just – send a car or something. Fuck.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Lance says softly.

Keith laughs, a horrible, barking thing.

“Is it?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You should pay a fine for breach of contract,” Iverson says. “Simple as that.”

“Mr. McClain’s contract has no stipulations for disclosure of personal affairs,” the lawyer says.

“He didn’t tell us he knocked up some _guy!_ ” Iverson explodes. “He got a mechanic _pregnant_ and this is the first we’ve heard of it! From _People!_ The movie’s blown to shit, how are gonna recoup these ticket sales?”

The sun’s not even up yet. Lance is on his third cup of coffee and he feels like this conference room will be his tomb. “I was dealing with some pretty huge life changes,” he says, with all the grit and dignity he can muster. “I’m sorry my first call when I found out I was gonna be a father wasn’t to _20 th Century Fox_.”

“It should’ve been!” Iverson yells, and Hunk steps in.

“None of this is productive,” he says sharply. He showed up, like Lance, in the nicest clothes he had, without taking time to change into a suit; his wrinkled button-down and dark wash jeans shouldn’t be so endearing, but they are. “None of this helps us. Our only priority right now is next steps. Every minute we don’t release a statement is another minute this story gets away from us and the internet comes up with wilder and wilder theories.”

“If we didn’t have to wait for his baby mama – “

“His name is _Keith_ ,” Lance yells, “and he has a right to know what we’re gonna say about him!”

“Garage just called,” says one of the ten people on a phone. “He’s here.”

Lance glares at the room, wants to tell these grown ass men to play nice like he tells his nieces and nephews before dinner. Everyone sits in tense silence for five minutes, which makes it all the worse when Keith walks in all alone.

Lance’s heart breaks, looking at him. He’s so tired, bags under his purple eyes, cowlick in his hair from his pillow. He’s wearing his best paternity jeans and a clean Henley, but he still looks underdressed compared to all these assholes in suits. He walks slowly, haltingly into the room, eyes darting around like a cornered animal. He’s _so_ pregnant – Lance has forgotten, since he’s used to seeing it, but no one else here is, and one of the lawyers barely stifles a gasp. Keith’s ears go red, and he tries to hunch in on himself. Lance doesn’t why it’s so damning, Keith’s round belly, but it is – visible proof of what they did and how long they hid it. Lance feels a curl of shame in his own belly. _Fuck_. Everyone knows.

He gets up, though, walks over to Keith as quickly as he can. With all of their eyes glued on him, he hugs Keith, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. It’s like hugging a statue; Keith doesn’t relax one bit.

“Hi,” he says, which feels woefully inadequate. Keith pulls back, and Lance sees that his jaw is set, eyes huge and scared in his pale face. Lance pulls out a chair and Keith lowers himself in cautiously, off-balance. He’s barely taken a seat when Iverson moves in.

“Mr., uh – Kogane, was it?”

Keith nods.

“Thank you for coming in today.” It’s the least thankful Lance has ever heard someone sound. “First things first, how pregnant are you?”

“Thirty weeks,” he replies. “Thirty-one in two days.”

Mutterings fill the room. “Christ, that’s almost here,” a lawyer says – Lance think his name is Dos Santos.

“And is it true that you are a…motorcycle mechanic?”

Keith nods shortly. Lance wants to punch Iverson, the derision in his voice.

Then, Iverson locks his one eye on Keith and has the fucking nerve to say, “And have you taken a paternity test to prove that this child is, indeed, Lance McClain’s?”

“Fuck off,” Lance spits, can’t help it. “It’s _mine_.”

“We don’t know that,” Iverson says, cold as stone, as Keith flushes bright red. “We don’t know his choices. We have no proof any of this is necessary.”

“It’s his,” Keith grits out. “Trust me.”

“I think I would remember who I slept with without a condom,” Lance defends.

“Would you?” Iverson says calmly, and Lance’s blood boils.

“Before we go further, we really need to get a paternity test,” says Dos Santos. “Just to make sure. Maybe this will all be a misunderstanding – “

“Give me the fucking test,” Keith says, savage fury in his voice, and as upset as Lance is, something inside him cheers, because _this_ is the Keith he loves. “I don’t care. But it’s going to be positive, so while you’ve got me, let’s try to something productive with our time.”

At the end of the table, Hunk is visibly trying to contain his laughter.

Some of the execs look amused or even grudgingly impressed; Iverson narrows his gaze, like Keith is an impertinent child who needs punished.

“So as far as strategy,” Hunk says, scrolling through his phone, “I think our only real solution is a statement. Let’s come clean, spin it positively, introduce Keith and then let it lie for a couple of days for the furor to die down.”

“We can’t…deny?” Keith asks.

Lance feels like he got punched in the mouth. “You _want_ to?”

“Just until we come up with something better! Buy us some time!”

Lance stares, aghast, as Keith’s face gets redder while his eyes stay hard. After all this, after – after _everything_ , he wants to just…deny? He –

“It’s too late for that,” Hunk says. “Unless you want to never be seen in public again with Lance once you have the baby. Can’t exactly go to the park together after we’ve issued a vehement denial that the child is his, can you?”

Shit, does Keith _want_ that? To never be seen in public with Lance again? Keith looks down at the table and says nothing, jaw working.

“Mr. Kogane might have a point,” says the head PR woman, Montgomery. “Buying us some time to get a better story isn’t a bad play.”

“ _What_ better story?” Hunk says. “There is no better story, this is the story!”

“Something that doesn’t make them look like irresponsible kids! The optics are terrible! Get Keith a better job, say we knew all along and were valuing their privacy, get them married – “

“ _Married?_ ” Keith and Lance both bristle at the word. “You can’t force us to get _married_ , this isn’t the 1800s! Just because I got someone pregnant - “

“You fucked a _mechanic!_ ” Iverson yells, and Keith flinches. “A mechanic with no college degree and no family, and you hid it from us so we have to find out from a _tabloid_ – “

“He didn’t hide it,” Keith says.

“What?”

“He didn’t hide it,” he says. His voice is thick with something, but he swallows it and makes eye contact with Iverson. Lance realizes at the last second what he’s about to do and starts shaking his head furiously. “Not for the whole time, at least. I didn’t tell him until two weeks ago.”

The tension in the room ratchets up immediately. Every suit stares at Keith with total disdain, like he’s something stinking that Lance dragged in from the alley. Hunk, with a deep frown on his face, is typing furiously at his phone. Lance wants to reach out and grab Keith’s hand, but they’re clasped tight on the top of the conference table and he looks like he wants no one to touch him.

_I was never going to tell them that_ , Lance thinks, staring at Keith’s handsome profile, the slope of his nose and the flint of his eyes. _That was gonna be our secret. Now they’ll_ hate _you._

“Well,” Iverson finally speaks into the icy silence. “I’m glad to see that your complete disregard for other people’s lives doesn’t just extend to the people in this room, Mr. Kogane, but to the father of your child as well.”

“I had my reasons,” Keith grits out. There are tears standing in his eyes.

“What reasons could _possibly_ be good enough? What could _ever_ justify the situation we now find ourselves in?”

“I had my reasons,” Keith repeats.

(Lance, actually, doesn’t mind this interrogation, because he’s had the same questions for two weeks now.)

“ _Why?_ ” Montgomery says. “Explain it to us, so we can maybe use that in the spin – “

“Hell no,” Hunk says. “We offer no explanation. That makes us look weak. We say just the bare necessities and we deal with explanations later, if we ever deal with them.”

The execs descend into bickering and strategies, and Lance turns to Keith. The sun is just starting to rise now, casting a soft gray glow alongside the garish conference room lights, and the light makes him look young and scared, pale alabaster skin and thick lashes and downcast eyes. He’s looking down at his belly, the way he does when she’s kicking and he’s trying to will her to stop without touching her.

“Keith,” Lance says, and he jerks up, wildly.

“I had my reasons,” he whispers.

“Was _this_ – “ Lance gestures around at the conference room, at the general Hollywood bullshit that’s coalesced into the perfect miasma in this room, “one of them?”

Keith doesn’t say anything. He bites his lip and holds eye contact and Lance connects the dots.

“Fuck,” he whispers, as his heart crumbles in his chest.

The meeting progresses terribly from there. Quite a few of the suits are in the deny camp, quite a few are in favor of sending Lance on a publicity blitz to atone for his actions, and at least one seems to think Keith should be sent to the fucking gulag so he isn’t seen publicly pregnant out of wedlock. Hunk’s their biggest advocate, stopping them from slandering Keith and Lance too much, but he leaves to make a call right as Iverson says that they should detract any losses in movie revenue directly from Lance’s salary.

“ _What_?” Lance says.

“It’s simple, the way I see it,” Iverson says blithely. “We look at the movie’s projected revenue, and anything that falls below that we take from Mr. McClain’s cut. It’s only fair.”

“That could be tens of millions of dollars!”

“Then that’s how much your mistake is worth!”

The lawyers all start yelling at once, Lance’s lawyers pointing to his guaranteed salary in his contract and the studio lawyers arguing that they’ve got license to do this and Lance watching his biggest fear become reality, that he won’t be able to provide for his family and he’ll have nothing to offer Keith and their daughter besides a failed movie career. Keith’s going to leave him and he’ll only see his baby on weekends if he’s lucky, and there’ll be no more quiet nights of cooking and ‘Garrison Varsity’ on the couch –

“I’m hungry,” Keith says, bringing the room to a halt.

“Hungry?” Iverson repeats.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “In case you didn’t know, I’m pregnant – “ he waves a hand over his belly in an impressively sardonic gesture, “and I’ve been here for two hours with no breakfast. I need to eat and I need to piss.”

At least some of the execs have the grace to look chagrined.

“Do you have a cafeteria in this building?” Lance asks.

“For employees only,” one of them mutters.

Lance cries, “Dude, he’s _pregnant_ , what the fu – “

“Take Mr. Kogane to get some breakfast,” Iverson says with a nod, and fuck but Lance hates that, that Keith doesn’t get food because he’s carrying Lance’s child and needs to eat, but because _Iverson_ said so, like they’re kids who need adult permission to use the bathroom during class. That’s all they are to them, is children – dumb kids who ran off and got pregnant and now need the grownups to figure out what to do about it.

Lance is actually starving too, but when he goes to stand up, Iverson pins him to his seat with a look. Keith looks over his shoulder from where he’s being led out by a secretary, and Lance shrugs and gives the best smile he can. Judging by Keith’s face as he walks out, it’s unsuccessful.

“You guys are being assholes to him,” Lance says as soon as the door is shut. “Can’t you cut him some slack?”

“This is your career we’re talking about,” Montgomery says coldly. “No, we can’t cut him some slack. He kept it a secret, that’s horrible.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Lance protests half-heartedly. “And anyway, you’re all acting like he’s a felon, so what if he didn’t go to college, I never went to college – “

“He’s an orphan mechanic from the foster care system, he’s surly and rude and basically you picked the worst person to knock up – “

“He’s still a person! And he’s lovely when he’s not being interrogated, he didn’t ask for this – “

“Then he should’ve used protection when he slept with a movie star!”

Hunk comes in just as the room descends back into chaos, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Dude, where were you? I was left to the wolves!” Lance hisses.

“I know, I’m sorry, that’s why I was calling in the big guns,” he says as he retakes his seat.

Lance has no idea what he’s talking about, and doesn’t until fifteen minutes later, when they’re deep in discussion about whether or not Lance should have to pay the studio for character damages. The door opens, and every head swivels around to see Allura Altea stride in, followed by her PA, Coran, typing on an iPad.

_Oh_ , Lance realizes. _The big guns._

“Miss Altea,” Iverson says, eyes wide, “What are you doing here – “

“Oh, I’m here to do what I can to stop you from being absolute arseholes.” Lance’s heartrate ticks up and he can’t stop a grin as she leans over and braces her hands on the table. “How _dare_ you treat Mr. McClain like this, like a liability, like a screw-up, when he’s going to become a father and we should be congratulating and supporting him in this exciting time?”

“Miss Altea,” Iverson says, “of course we support Mr. McClain – “

“ _Really?_ ” It’s so much more cutting in her British accent. “Is this what you call support? Threatening to strip him of his pay, to force him to get married, saying the most awful things to the father of his child? Have you no decency _at all_?”

Hunk smirks down at the table like the cat who got the cream.

“Miss Altea, we’re…really glad to see you,” Montgomery says, fidgeting in her seat, “but this is really a private matter between us and Mr. Kogane and Mr. McClain – “

“It’s not anymore,” she says with absolute firmness. “Let me make myself plain. If you do not treat Mr. McClain – one of your biggest-earning stars, I’ll remind you – with anything less than unconditional support and understanding, I will pull out of _Edge of a Knife_ and any further collaboration with 20th Century Fox.”

Lance’s heart stops as gasps erupt through the room. “We’ve finished principal photography, you can’t do that! We’ll run the movie anyway!” Iverson says.

“Oh, of course there’s nothing I can do about footage already shot,” she says blithely, an evil little smirk on her face. “I’m not a _magician_ , I can’t turn back time. What I can do, however, is refuse to appear in promotions. I can refuse to go premieres and red carpets. I can tell my Twitter followers, all – how many do I have, Coran?”

“Thirty-four million, as of this morning,” he replies cheerfully.

“All _thirty-four million_ of them,” she says, and watches every suit in the room have a simultaneous heart attack, “to boycott this movie due to mistreatment of my dear friend, Lance McClain. How do you think _that_ will affect the movie’s performance?”

“You signed a contract,” says Dos Santos, weakly. “For promotion. You’ll pay a fine.”

This doesn’t scare her – if anything, her eyes light up. “If you truly think that your fines will have any impact on my vast personal fortune, you have truly underestimated my value and I would advise you to never to do so again.”

_Holy shit_ , Lance thinks, in the one corner of his brain that hasn’t gone non-verbal in the freakout, _this woman really should’ve won that Oscar._

“Now,” she says into the stunned silence of the conference room, “if you had been thinking clearly at all through your prejudice and cruelty, you would have remembered that Lance has been nothing but a fantastic asset to this studio, who has delivered another amazing performance in very difficult circumstances during filming, circumstances which _you_ caused with your incompetence, circumstances which Coran has been faithfully recording with all due diligence in case you ever try to get uppity with us about the _disaster_ that was the filming of this movie.” Coran waves the iPad with a grin, and Iverson goes deathly pale. “Lance isn’t asking for much but some sympathy and understanding from the people who are supposed to have his back. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Slowly, heads in the room start to shake.

“You will also,” she continues, “be giving Lance any and all paternity leave he requests around the birth of his child.”

“That’s right during the premiere – “

“Any and all.” Her voice is clipped. “You will also allow him to add Keith and the child on his health insurance, and Keith will not be forced to sign any NDA’s beyond the standard issue contracts. All this,” she says, “is merely due to the trouble you have caused them this morning. For all that Lance has done for you, I think it more than fair.”

Iverson says, “You are not in a position to bargain for him, Miss Altea – “

“I will _walk_ ,” she says, loud and clear. “Coran has been on the phone with my attorneys already, I can and I will. You need me more than I need you. Lance has been a far better friend to me than anyone in this room, so understand that my loyalty is to him and no one else. If you choose not to pay him respect then you choose not to pay me respect, so be prepared for me to act accordingly. Have I made myself clear?”

The execs nod like bobbleheads.

“Good,” she says curtly, and sweeps out of the room.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Coran says brightly, as he follows her.

“I – sorry, I’ll be right back,” Lance says, pushing out his chair and through the door. He sees the swish of her white ponytail down the hall and calls “Allura!”, practically jogging to catch up to her.

She turns, eyes still blazing, and he has to tilt his head a bit to look up at her.

“Allura, Jesus, I – “

He tries to get a grip on his swirling thoughts, starts with the most important. “ _Thank you_ , so much, oh my God. That – that was incredible, you saved my _ass_ , oh my God.”

“You’re welcome, Lance. Hunk called and told me what was happening and I just wanted to help.”

Coran has made himself scarce, down at the end of the hall on his cell phone. There’s still an angry little furrow in her eyebrows, and it doesn’t take long for Lance to figure out why.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the baby,” He says. The hallway is so much quieter than the awful conference room; his head is ringing with the silence, almost making him dizzy. “I know you must have questions and I’m sorry. I really only did find out two weeks ago, and it’s been crazy, I kinda invaded his apartment, we genuinely didn’t tell anybody, I wasn’t sure where we stood…yeah. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

All of her anger is gone, replaced by warm eyes and a kind smile. “It’s alright, dear,” she says, squeezing his arms. “It was a shock, of course, but I meant what I said. This is a really exciting time for you, they shouldn’t act like you’re a criminal. I will walk, if they try this again.”

“Think you stole their balls, there, I’d be surprised if they had the guts to ever speak to you again.”

She laughs, clear and beautiful. She’s a little prideful, sure, but Lance knows she would never be anything but happy for him in the end. She just hates not knowing the latest gossip, which becomes abundantly clear when she starts looking around the room.

“Sooo…where is he? The famous Keith? Can I meet him?”

“I think he’s getting food somewhere? I haven’t seen him in a minute.”

“I can’t believe you’re having a _baby!_ ” She says, hands clasped to her chest. “This is the most exciting thing ever, there’s gonna be a little teeny Lance running around!”

“Well, it’s a girl, so – “

This prompts another round of squeals from Allura, along with a bone-crushing hug.

“A girl! A baby girl! Oh my God, this is the best day ever!”

“Is it?” Lance says, and she reads his voice and lets the hug turn into something softer.

“I know today must be terrible,” she says gently, rubbing a hand up and down his back. “But it’s all temporary. When your daughter is in your arms, you won’t be worrying about any of this nonsense anymore.”

Lance gives himself the comfort, because he needs it; gives himself a second to bury his head in Allura’s shoulder and breathe in her clear, fresh perfume, and maybe squeeze out a tear or two that’ve been building this whole terrible day. Then he pulls back and puts his game face back on, because Keith needs him to be strong in there. He needs to protect his family.

He musters up a smile. “You’re right.”

She smiles back. “Of course I am, darling.”

 

* * *

 

 

The employee cafeteria is barely waking up when Keith and the secretary get down to it. The secretary leaves almost immediately to go make a call, for which Keith is extremely grateful; he can feel everyone’s eyes on him like sandpaper, looking at his face and his belly and his rough hands like they know everything about him, like they can’t wait to get their hands on the guy who ruined Lance McClain’s life. He hunches over and eats his bagel and cream cheese all alone in a too-bright cafeteria. He’s so hungry he eats it in three bites and goes back for a second one.

Afterwards he has no desire to back to that awful fucking conference room with all those people who hate him and Lance who looked like he was two seconds from crying. _Cause he hates you_ , says the voice inside his head. _You didn’t tell him you were pregnant, you put his career in jeopardy, you didn’t go to college and you don’t look right and he wishes he’s having a baby with anyone but_ you.

His eyes prickle and he digs the heels of his hands in his eyes, breathing deep. He’s not gonna cry in this fucking cafeteria, surrounded by people who are thinking he’s trash. He’s not going to give them ammo.

He distracts himself by calling Shiro, who’s called him twenty times already. Despite the fact that it’s just gone seven am, Shiro and Adam are both wide awake, picking up immediately and listening intently as Keith explains the situation in halting sentences.

“So they’re actually figuring out the official press statement,” Adam says. “Like, this will be an official press release, clarifying the nature of your relationship with Lance McClain.”

“Yeah, basically,” Keith says.

There’s a pause. “When you first brought him over, this is the kind of thing I was picturing,” Shiro says. “Tabloids and press and paparazzi. But the more you talked about him, I just…it wasn’t a part of his life. He almost never seemed truly famous.”

“I know. I forgot too. It’s like…he was just _Lance_ , not Lance McClain. We had our little bubble away from it all. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.” He tears up again, taking a few deep sniffles, whiles Adam and Shiro graciously say nothing.

“So what’s the game plan? What are they gonna say?” Adam asks.

“I don’t know. I’m hiding.”

“Keith – “

“They hate me,” he says viciously. “Their job is to make Lance look good and nothing about this looks good. _I_ don’t look good. I fucked up and I didn’t tell him and now they hate me and I’m gonna fucking hide, okay?”

They’ve got nothing to say to that.

He calls Pidge afterwards, cause she’s also called quite a few times so he figures she’s awake. She’s a bit more hip to the celebrity around Lance McClain then Shiro or Adam, and she has opinions about how they should do the press release (she agrees with Hunk, that they have to be upfront about it.)

“Pidge,” he interrupts her in the middle of a diatribe. “What – you literally just had a baby. When have you had time to figure all this out? Also how is he doing?”

She sighs, and Keith can hear the exhaustion in her voice.

“Look, I still haven’t really slept,” she admits. “It’s…it’s looking a little rocky. There’s a lot I didn’t realize about having a preemie. So when the story broke, it was maybe nice to get ten minutes of thinking about something else. Plus, you were visiting me when it happened, so I feel bad.”

“Don’t, we wanted to be there,” he says without thinking. “A little rocky, what does that mean, is he okay?”

“He’s fine, but he’s…he’s _little_. And they’re saying I can’t take him home for at least a month until he gets bigger. And he’s in the NICU with all these lights and a little cannula and a tube into his little tiny belly cause he can’t breastfeed and I can’t hold him for too long and – “ Her breath catches. “It’s hard, you know? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and my mom is saying I need to be tough for him, and…it’s hard.”

“Pidge,” he says, wishing with everything in him that he was with her, just to hold her. “Shit, oh my God, that’s – that – “

“I know,” she says heavily. “Yeah.”

“But he’s…it’s just for now, right? Like he’ll be fine and grow up big and he just needs help now?”

“Yeah, that’s what they’re saying. Shouldn’t be any lasting effects. It’s just that I wish we were there now, and not in the crappy shitty part right now.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says. Then, because he’s totally forgot until now –

“Did you name him?”

“Yeah,” she says, her voice significantly brighter. “I think so.”

“ _And?_ ”

“I like Archibald.”

“Archibald?” He replies. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I like it,” she defends. “Call him Archie for short.”

“Archie,” Keith repeats, testing it on his tongue. “That’s actually…that’s not bad.”

“I know, right?”

“Is it after anyone? Like a relative or something?”

“No,” she says, “I just like it. Archibald Samuel Holt. It’s got a good ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Keith says begrudgingly. “It’s not bad. As long as you don’t mind everyone asking if you named him after ‘Riverdale’ for the first couple of years.”

“What?”

“’Riverdale?’ You don’t know ‘Riverdale?’ What – you call yourself ‘the god of the internet’ and you don’t know _‘Riverdale?’”_

“I just had a baby,” she says indignantly. "I had more important things to do than watch TV."

“You watched every single season of 'Star Trek: Next Generation' while you were pregnant, that is not an excuse!”

“Star Trek is _art!_ ” She hisses, and Keith smiles for the first time all morning. Because Pidge a gift from a benevolent god, and Keith’s not sure what he did to deserve her.

He ends the call with promises to come visit her when things calm down. Then he makes the tragic trip back up to the conference room, the secretary having vanished long ago.

He knows it’s only been a couple of hours, but already it feels like he’s been in this fucking office building for a week. He drags his feet getting out of the elevator, takes his time going down the hallways, lit by garish fluorescent ceiling lights. He’s not ready to go back into that conference room; might never go back if he had a say, could just stay in this hallway.

Then he turns the corner.

There’s Allura Altea, immediately recognizable, even more beautiful in person, flowing ponytail and endless legs. And there’s Lance, or at least his back, because he’s hugging her, his face pressed so tight to her neck that all Keith can see is the back of his head and her hands rubbing through his hair. He’s clinging to her, and she’s soothing him, and her eyes are closed and her face is tender and she’s holding Lance like Keith never has.

The baby kicks. Keith wants to cry.

They haven’t seen him, too wrapped up in each other, so Keith flees back down the hallway, pushing on doors until he finds one that’s open and falls into it. It’s another smaller conference room, with the tables and chairs pushed up to the side, and Keith doesn’t have the strength to pull over a chair before he kneels clumsily on the round and starts to cry.

Of _course_ Allura would be here to pick up the pieces. When Keith and his bastard got discovered, of _course_ Lance would go to his beautiful co-star. Nobody would ever tell her that her optics weren’t good, nobody would ever say Allura was the worst person on earth to knock up.

Or maybe – maybe she’s been here all along. Maybe she’s been with Lance while Keith was at work, maybe he was at her place last night. Maybe he was just staying with Keith out of _pity_ , or a sense of duty to the baby, and now he’s realizing what a bad idea that was, he should’ve taken the out Keith gave him, and she’s whispering in his ear, _I know dear, I know he’s a tramp, you’ve done so well to stand by him…cut your losses, you don’t need him dragging you down…come home to me, I’ll be what you need…_

Keith sobs, gasping for air, red-faced and snotty and pathetic, like he’s never cried before, hiccuping for air. He can’t blame them. That’s the worst part. If he had a chance to leave himself, he would. He’s got nothing to offer Lance, nothing like Allura does. He’s got abandonment issues and a miserable apartment and a thorny heart. Lance deserves _so much better_ than him.

The baby kicks again, and Keith drops a hand to hold her.

He could’ve worn a condom. He could’ve. He didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, and thinks he’ll never stop saying it.

He keeps crying, his sobs petering out only to start up again. In one of the quiet periods, he hears a voice from outside the doors.

“Keith? Someone said they saw you up here, did you get lost?”

Keith instantly holds his breath in, tries to stop crying. He _can’t_ let Lance find him, not like this.

“Keith?’

He hears Lance trying doors, jiggling handles. He claps a hand over his mouth, fingertips wet with tears, tries to be silent.

No use. Lance opens the door and his eyes widen when he sees Keith teary-eyed on the floor.

“Keith,” he says, and his voice is _so_ convincingly heartbroken. Kid’s a good actor. “Babe, are you okay?”

‘Babe’ sets off another round of tears. “Fine,” Keith says, even as his eyes well up and tears roll down his cheeks.

Lance, to Keith’s horror, kneels down next to him. “You’re not hurt, right? You’re just sad?”

“Just sad,” Keith says, remembering the 911 call, Lance sobbing as he held Keith. The day that Keith decided that it was time to let Lance into his life, because it was clear Lance wanted to stay.

He was so _stupid_.

He puts his face in his hands and sobs, and for a long time Lance says nothing, just puts a gentle hand on Keith’s knee. Keith wants to push him off, but it feels too nice, this tiny degree of comfort.

“I’m so sorry,” Lance finally says, and his own voice is thick with tears. Keith peeks up through his bangs and sees Lance scrubbing at his nose. “I’m sorry. I know this is awful.”

“I didn’t want all this,” Keith says.

“I know,” Lance says miserably.

“I didn’t want to be your _mistake_.”

“You’re not.”

Keith laughs awfully. “What am I, Lance? What am I to these people but your biggest mistake?”

“You’re the father of my child,” Lance whispers.

Keith snorts. “Exactly what I mean. A mistake.”

He’s trying to play it tough, but the tears leaking out of his eyes shatter the illusion. Lance rubs his eyes, shoulders shaking on an exhale. Last night they were holding Pidge’s baby and there was nothing Keith wanted more than to wake up every day beside this man.

Now, he’s filled with something akin to hate – hate towards Lance, hate for his team, hate for Allura. Hate for himself for thinking it would turn out okay.

“Can we – we should go back,” Lance finally says. “Hunk’s managed to convince them to do a statement. So let’s…get it over with.”

Keith exhales. He plants a hand on the nearest stack of chairs and uses it to lever himself up.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s get this over this.”

 

* * *

 

 

The official press release goes live at 9:30 am. It’s as bare bones as they could make it, but Keith still hates the amount of information it contains – his full name, his occupation, his age, how many months pregnant he is. They make no effort to clarify the relationship between Keith and Lance, just say that they’re excited to be parents and they ask for privacy at this time. That request, of course, goes unheeded; as soon as the website girl posts it, Lance’s PR reps’ phones start going crazy, and they all dismiss themselves to go deal with the fallout.

“Well, I guess that’s as good as it’ll get,” Iverson says testily.

Hunk doesn’t even argue; he’s been talking so much he’s almost lost his voice.

“Can we go home?” Keith asks. They’ve been here for almost five hours. He would commit capital murder for the chance to take a nap.

“Yeah, about that,” says one of the guys in the back. A big beefy guy on Lance’s security team.

“ _What now_? I’ve signed all your shit, the statement’s up, what more do you need from me?”

“It’s not that you can’t go home, it’s that you can’t go back to your home,” he says. “We cased the apartment while you were meeting. I’m not comfortable with Mr. Kogane going back there right now. The security’s not tight enough.”

He’s so fucking tired and humiliated and strung out, the tears are there instantly. “You’re not letting me go _home?_ ”

“Kinkade, please – “ Lance says.

“Mr. McClain, this is serious. There are fans outside the studio right now, and all your fan pages are telling more to come so they can catch a glimpse of you. You’re trending on Twitter. The security risk would be high enough normally, but Mr. Kogane’s pregnant. I genuinely think they might follow your car to his apartment and I’m not willing to take that chance.”

“Where am I supposed to _go?_ ”

“Mr. McClain’s house is gated and has intensive security measures in place. It’s already equipped for this.”

“My stuff – “

“Can be picked up and brought to you. I’m sorry, Mr. Kogane, I know it’s an inconvenience, but I genuinely think it is in your best interest. It’s just for a few days, a week at most, while this dies down.”

Keith’s rage is boiling out of him, causing his heart to slam and his fists to clench. He breathes through a locked jaw, sees Lance’s tense, terrified face, and gets even angrier.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Fuck. Not like you people haven’t taken enough from me.”

“Keith – “ Lance says, teary.

“Shut _up_. Jesus. Let’s go.”

Hunk’s face is stricken. Keith attempts to storm out, but the effect is lessened by his belly bumping against the edge of the table, causing him to readjust. He has no idea where he’s going, just stomps down the hall. Everyone else catches up at the elevator, and it’s a tense, silent ride to the car.

Everything about it grates on Keith, in a way it wouldn’t ordinarily. He hates the way the black car smells. He hates the way Iverson leans over and whispers something in Lance’s ear, just as they’re leaving, once against leaving Keith out of the loop. He hates that Hunk gives Lance a hug, and Lance says a sincere thank you and Keith can hardly muster a wave because it feels like his anger is burning him alive. He feels frenetic, like if he wasn’t weighed down by the baby and his misshapen body he’d be up and fighting like he used to. But all he can do is grind his teeth, and fidget, and try to ignore Lance sitting beside him like a terrified, remorseful puppy. He could punch him.

He gets angrier when he sees the security guard was right. There are tons of people waiting outside, mostly young women, crowding around the main entrance with cell phones in hand. The black car sails right by them, with their tinted windows and side exit, and a couple of the girls scream and start running but the car’s already long gone. Keith watches them getting smaller with a distant sense of panic. This is his life now. This is his new normal. This is what will happen _every time he leaves his house_.

He stews all through the trip, even as they start to go on highways and roads he’s only driven on in his motorcycle. He realizes where they’re going – Bel-Air, literally Bel-Air – and wants to scream.

After 40 minutes of the most awkward car ride of Keith’s life, they turn off the beautiful, manicured streets and up to a gate flanked by fountains. A security guard leans out of his kiosk and smiles at them.

“Have a good day, Mr. McClain.”

The gate swings open and they roll up through wide green lawns, brick walls, gates with monograms on them. Keith’s still plenty angry, but for the first time he’s also a little curious.

The driven finally pulls in at a house on the top of gradual swell of a hill, with a wide lawn sloping up to an adobe house sitting on top of the hill like a cake topper. The gate is simple bronze, and the driver inputs a code to make the gates swing open.

“This is where you live?”

Lance literally jumps when he hears Keith’s voice, then tries to cover it up with a cough.

“Uh. Yeah. Yes.”

The driver takes up a paved driveway, dotted with flowers. The front of the house has a gorgeous fountain, colorful flowers Keith can’t name spilling out of large terracotta pots.

_$75 million,_ the voice in Keith’s head whispers.

He didn’t know what $75 million looked like until now.

“Text Griffin what you want from the other apartment,” Kinkade says. “He should be able to have it all to you by this evening.”

“Wait,” Keith says, just remembering, “there’s a motorcycle parked outside – could you bring it inside? Or store it somewhere?”

Kinkade nods. “We saw that. We’ll put it in the living room.”

That…works, Keith supposes. “Thanks,” he says, and steps out. Shit, even the air smells better here. He didn’t know there was any part of LA that didn’t permanently smell like smog.

Lance gets out and fumbles the keys to the front door. “So I haven’t been here in a few weeks – obviously, you knew that, duh – so it’s not that clean, so, yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll do a pick up while you nap or something, we’ll get this taken care of…”

He opens the door, still not meeting Keith’s eyes, and gestures him into the foyer.

This house has a fucking _foyer_.

The ceiling is tall and beautiful, showing a winding staircase up to a second floor. A beautiful mural takes up one of the entryway walls – lush flowers, rich colors, dark-skinned people dancing in community.

“Okay, so…” The insecurity in Lance’s voice is painful to hear, but Keith’s not ready to let him off the hook yet. “Let me give you the grand tour…”

There are two living rooms, one of them sunken with a beautiful fireplace, the other modern with televisions and gaming consoles. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, clean and shining with a window that looks out over the gorgeous pool and huge backyard. Upstairs there’s three bedrooms (all of them have windows, Keith notes with a pit in his stomach); downstairs there’s a basement with a home gym and a movie theater.

As Lance babbles his way through the house, Keith’s exhausted brain brings him to a thrilling conclusion; it’s a rich house, yes, but it’s not _opulent_. There aren’t crystal chandeliers in every room and a robot butler. It still feels approachable. There are signs that a 21-year-old boy lives here; shoes piled by the front door, an empty pizza box in the recycling, video game controllers strewn all over the couch. Just like Lance, really; his obscene wealth and star status mean more to everyone else than to him.

Keith lets Lance peter out and asks when there’s a lull,

“How long have you lived here?”

It’s the first thing he’s said in half an hour. Lance’s eyes light up. “Oh! Uh, like two years?”

“Where were you before?”

“With my parents. I bought them a nice big house so we could fit everybody and I lived there until I was nineteen, cause I’m not always good at being alone, you know? But I was nineteen and I figured probably time to move out, you know? So I got this place. The pool’s my favorite part. And it has a hot tub! We should hot tub.”

“Can’t,” Keith says. “Pregnant, remember?”

Lance’s face falls and Keith immediately feels guilty. “Yeah, of course, how could I forget, _stupid_ – “

“You’re not stupid,” Keith says. God, he wants to be so pissed at this boy – the image of him and Allura hugging still flashes in his eyes every couple of minutes – but it’s hard, when Lance looks like a kicked puppy, when he’s clearly beating himself up over the article even though it’s not his fault. “We can swim. I like swimming.”

“Okay,” Lance says, nodding enthusiastically. “Swim, yes.”

“Food first?”

“ _Yes!_ Let me see what I have.”

Enough, apparently; Lance makes a pasta salad with olive oil and feta cheese and it’s the perfect light meal for Keith’s stomach, still queasy from being woken up early and starved for hours. Something occurs to him while he watches Lance hang up his adorable apron, and it’s important enough to break the awkward silence.

“How are you feeling? You just got _outed_.”

Lance blinks at Keith’s bluntness, but shrugs down at his bowl. “Not…that bad? Obviously it wasn’t how I preferred to do it, but I’ve been trying to come out for _years_. So in a way it’s almost nice that the hand got forced, you know? Otherwise I’m not sure they’d ever let me.”

Keith nods.

“I mean, I haven’t seen what people are saying online, so that’ll probably suck, but…you know. It’s our kid. That’s important enough to be out for.”

Makes sense, Keith thinks. Or maybe Lance didn’t mind being closeted because Allura is his true love and he knew he would end up with her. Also makes sense.

The exhaustion starts to hit him once he’s full, the sheer weight of all that’s happened in just one day. Lance says he can choose any bedroom upstairs and leaves it up to Keith whether to choose the one that is very obviously Lance’s.

His bedroom looks warm and inviting – a big messy bed, warm pictures of family, a balcony with a view of LA sleeping in the distance.

Keith thinks of Allura’s long, pretty nails scratching through Lance’s hair.

He picks one of the other two rooms, smaller and colder, with impersonal sheets and a bedside tablet covered in a thin coat of dust, totally forgotten.

He sends texts to Shiro, Adam and Pidge so they don’t think he’s been kidnapped, then crawls into bed. He’s so tired he’s sure he’ll fall asleep in the next minute.

It takes him almost an hour.

 

* * *

 

 

When Keith wakes up, it’s late afternoon. The sun hovers just over the horizon, changing the light in the room. Keith wakes up and lets himself stretch for minutes on end before he shuffles out. He slept in his jeans; he really needs to have some clothes soon, because even jeans with a stretchy waistband aren’t comfortable for a full night’s sleep.

He goes slowly down the stairs, clinging to the banister because he can’t see his feet, and finds Lance sitting at the kitchen island with a laptop and a mug of tea in front of him. When he hears Keith come down he turns, and Keith can see his drawn, bloodshot eyes.

“Hey! Sleep well?”

“Better than you.”

Lance tries to grin, but it comes out like a grimace. “Yeah.”

“What are you working on?” Keith attempts to climb up onto a bar stool but they’re very high – it takes him two tries to get up next to Lance.

“Trying to figure out which talk show should interrogate me,” he says miserably. “We’ve gotten _so_ many offers and I’m trying to decide which one will be the least painful.”

“Go on a talk show…to talk about us? The baby?”

“Yeah. I don’t mind the idea of talking about this in my own words, not just a statement, but Iverson wants to try and capitalize on this to get people to watch the movie and that’s the part that pisses me off.”

“How does you getting me pregnant make people want to watch the movie?”

“I don’t know, it’s a scandal? I don’t get it. They do this all the time, every movie poster has me and Allura on it, it’s so annoying…”

Keith’s heart leaps at the mention of Allura and he instantly tries to change the subject. “So what are they saying online?”

“Uhh…stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff,” Lance says cagily.

“I’m just gonna look it up later if you don’t show me now.”

Lance sighs, and Keith can’t help but find it endearing that Lance wants to take care of him. Lance clicks open People.com, where their statement is the top of the page with the blurry picture of them from the hospital. The article has been viewed by a million people already. Keith fights down a wave of dizziness.

He scrolls down to the comments section and screws up his courage.

_WTF?????_

_NOOOOOO Lance is my husband what is he doing w this slut????_

_Picture sucks but I would fuck the other guy_

_LMAO all that money can’t buy a condom_

_Lance is gonna be such a good daddy <3_

_Does that other guy have a mullet asking for a friend_

_God says homosexualitie is a sin, these sodomites are going to hell, the bible says so_

_Since when is Lance gay. Isn’t he dating allura??_

_The slash fanfiction writes itself_

_OH MY GOD I’M CRY_

_You guys are idiots, he’s been a twink for years_

_Who tf is that guy???_

_Good for them for owning up to it!_

_This country has no morals_

_LANCE IS SO YOUNG FUCK THIS THAT CHINK WHORE SHOULD’VE KILLED HIS AIDS BABY_

_Keith kogane faggot_

It goes on and on.

Keith finally looks up and sees Lance watching him warily. He has no idea what to say. His heart beats shallowly, weakly.

“Shit,” he finally says.

“Yeah.”

“Is it…always like this?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, and Keith wants to cry. “I mean, this is a greater concentration than normal, but yeah.”

Keith keeps scrolling; it’s like a train wreck, he can’t stop looking at it even as it makes him want to vomit.

“They call you a wetback,” he says quietly.

“They call you a chink.”

Keith doesn’t know how to respond. Lance sighs, takes a sip of his tea. Keith waits for him to say something optimistic, some words of encouragement, but they don’t come. Keith has no idea what to do with a silent, depressed Lance. He can’t be the optimistic one here. They’ll never be happy if he’s the one in charge of group morale.

He decides to try anyway.

“Hey,” he says. “Think about it this way. None of these racist assholes online have a house with _two_ living rooms.”

“You said that before,” Lance says, with the tiniest of smiles. “Why are you so freaked out by the second living room?”

“You have _two living rooms_ and a _separate_ dining room. I have a combo living/dining room/kitchen. Not even separated.”

“One of the living rooms is more of a den, really.”

“Fuck you,” Keith says emphatically, and Lance gives his first grin. Keith doesn’t want to think of it as a victory, but he does.

Keith’s stuff has come in, so he spends time unpacking into the smaller bedroom. They forgot his favorite t-shirt, so he’ll have to go back for that at some point, but other than that they took most of his wardrobe and whatever they could find in the shower. Keith wants to protest that he needs a lot more than just clothes and soap – what about stuff in his kitchen? – but the truth is Lance’s gorgeous, new kitchen has everything his kitchen had and then some, so his argument doesn’t hold water.

Lance still hasn’t said anything about Keith moving into a different bedroom; he just asks what Keith wants for dinner out of their magically restocked fridge. Then they move to the non-den living room and eat risotto while silently watching ‘Garrison Varsity.’ Lance’s complete silence grates on Keith, sets his teeth on edge and makes him want to lash out. Lance is obviously so miserable having Keith here. Poor movie star who has to live with Keith. Is he counting down the hours until Keith can go home and he can go back to being with Allura, laughing about how poor clueless Keith had a crush on him? Lance has no right to be so pissed; Keith’s the one _stuck_ here, like he’s the one stuck with the bastard baby everyone’s so pissed about. Lance just has to put up with him for a couple of fucking days. Keith’s stuck with the baby for the rest of his damn _life_.

“It’s just for a few days,” he says viciously, out of nowhere, cause he’s never been good at controlling his impulses. “Then I’ll be out of your space.”

Lance looks bewildered. “It’s no trouble,” he says slowly. “There’s plenty of space.”

_Space_ , he says, space away from Keith, _fuck_. As soon as he’s done eating Keith storms off and all but throws his bowl in the sink as Lance gapes after him. The TV’s still playing and Keith didn’t even offer to wash up.

He hauls himself up the stairs, getting even angrier at how out of breath it makes him, and it takes everything in him not to slam the door of his bedroom.

Just a few more days, then he’ll be out of Lance McClain’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Keith has to wait for the car company to come get him before he goes to work. Lance offered to drive, but Kinkade said no, and Keith doesn’t mind. He’s looking forward to work; none of these guys have ever heard of Lance McClain before, so he gets to have a quiet day of fixing bikes and not being judged on his famous baby daddy.

At least, that’s what he thinks will happen.

He’s barely changed into his jumpsuit and gotten on the floor when Prorok says,

“Are you seriously having Lance McClain’s kid?”

Keith almost jumps out of his skin. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell us your boyfriend was famous?” Ranveig asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Keith says automatically. “Wait, how do you know who Lance McClain is?”

“My daughter is obsessed with him,” Prorok says, and shit, Keith forgot he had a teenage daughter. “She’s got posters in her room, makes me watch all the movies. She screamed when she saw that article come out.”

Well. This is nice and awkward. “Uh, yeah,” Keith says. It’s all he can say.

“So,” Sendak says, and his smile turns Keith’s stomach. “How nice, to have a cute, rich boyfriend at home. Here we felt so sorry for you – single and pregnant and alone – when it turns out you’ve been living the high life. Eating cheesecake and bon bons with your Hollywood boyfriend.”

Keith flushes bright red. He wishes he was in his plainclothes for this; the only jumpsuits they had that would cover his belly are way too long in the sleeves and legs, so he had to fold the hems up and glue gun them. He feels like an Oompa Loompa, and there is an exquisite humiliation in the way his zipper strains to fit over the widest part of his belly.

“It wasn’t anyone’s business but mine,” he says, which is true. “I just wanted to fix bikes.”

“What are you still doing here?” Prorok says with a sneer. “You’ve got a sugar daddy now, take good care of you.”

“I don’t need taking care of,” Keith says hotly.

“Besides, movie star did that already,” Ranveig says with a wink, and they all roar with laughter as Keith catches their meaning.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, loud and clear so it echoes across the garage. “Why don’t you all focus on your awful lives, and I’ll focus on mine.”

He walks over to his work station, where a Yamaha with a finnicky brake is waiting for him. He can feel them laughing at him behind his back, he can feel their scorn, but he just puts his head down and works.

After the assholes on the internet, these fuckers can’t touch him.

He has no desire to stay at work for lunch, so he calls a car and asks them to go the hospital. The driver gives him a weird look but complies, and this time they come in the back entrance. Keith can feel it, the slight terror of returning to the place where it all broke down. But he’s got a good reason to be here, and it’s worth all the anxiety as he walks through the halls, making eye contact with the nurses and wondering which of them sold him out.

He gets to the Pidge’s room, but there’s no one there – no Pidge, no Colleen, definitely no baby, the sheets on the bed turned down and the chairs empty. A passing nurse comes by and looks quizzically at Keith standing in the empty room, and he takes his chance and says,

“Hey, do you know where, uh – Katie Holt is? This was her room?”

“Oh, Pidge?” She says, and Keith instantly smiles. “Yeah, she’s over in the NICU, I can take you.”

If this nurse recognizes Keith, she doesn’t let on; she just takes them briskly down and across the hall. Keith’s having a hard time deciding which source of anxiety to focus on first: trying to figure out which nurses might have ratted him out, watching everyone with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, or panic over Pidge and Archie and his fragile chosen family that seems to be hanging on by a thread. He starts to clench his fingers, shoulders up like he’s ready for a fight. One nurse gives him a weird look, and it takes everything in him to convince himself not to snap at her.

He sees Pidge long before the nurse tells him they’re there; she’s standing before a set of swinging double doors, wearing sweatpants with her back to them, looking through the window. “Pidge,” the nurse says gently, and Pidge swings around. She’s been crying, Keith can tell; her eyes are red and puffy, with a little red nose like a tomato, and when she sees Keith she tears up again.

“Shit,” she says right away, and rushes forward to hug Keith. He holds her as tight as he can with his belly in the way, rubbing a hand over her greasy hair. He catches the look on the nurse’s face; it’s tender, pitying, loving. Apparently it took this woman all of two days to become desperately attached to Pidge. Keith knows the feeling.

“Pidgey,” he says. He’s not good with words. He definitely has no words for this.

She takes a shuddering breath against his neck and then slowly pulls away, wiping under her eyes. “Shit, I am so glad to see you,” she says, wobbly.

“What’s – is he okay? I know he’s not _okay_ , but is he – like, has anything…nothing’s happened, right?”

“We had, like, a little scare this morning – he was having trouble clearing his lungs, and they had to watch him to make sure he got it out, but he’s fine now. As fine as he can be when he weighs three and a half pounds and he can’t eat on his own and it’s the most fucking terrifying thing ever because it doesn’t even feel like I’m holding a baby, it’s like I’m holding a tiny little alien who is so small – “

“God,” Keith says. He feels like all he says to her are useless words, empty meaningless platitudes that are doing nothing to help. He’s a mechanic, he’s used to fixing things with his hands, not his words. “Are you – are you standing out here cause you can’t see him?”

“No, he’s sleeping.” She crosses her arms over her sweatshirt-clad chest. She still looks pregnant; her stomach is so swollen, it pushes at the pocket of her hoodie. Keith thinks he could drown in the bags under her eyes. “I got to hold him. He blinked at me a couple of times and they put my breastmilk in a bag to go into his stomach cause he can’t suck. That’s my motherhood journey so far. I never even wanted to be pregnant, and this is what happens…”

Her breath hitches, face crumpling, and he leans over to hug her again. This one is longer, looser; before he hugged her fiercely, to stamp his love on her; but this hug is a promise. _I’m not just here for the good times,_ he tries to say, with every slow inhale. _I’m here for the bad times too._

Pidge finally pulls away, wiping her eyes. “Do you want to see him?” She says, shakily.

“I thought he was sleeping?”

“He is,” she says, and then points to the window. “He’s the one farthest on the right.”

Keith looks through – which is probably much easier for him than for Pidge – and sees a row of bassinets surrounded by machines like watchful sentinels. He can’t tell much about the baby in the farthest on the right, but he’s picturing a mini-Pidge in the small pink body.

“Have you gone home yet?”

“No, I’ve probably got another day and then I’m home. And then I guess I just…come visit him? For a month? It sounds miserable, he’s my baby and I can’t hold him, and I just…I’d like…to be home. With my kid. That doesn’t feel like too much to ask.”

“It’s not,” Keith says softly.

She sighs, rubs at her eyes under her glasses. “So! How are you? What’s up?” She asks, faux-brightly.

“Pidge, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to!”

“I mean, seriously, you can’t care about us, you don’t – “

“Keith.” Her voice is so shaky, but so strong; a leaf made out of steel. She blinks gritty eyes at him. “Let me tell you what I want. Okay? So just…tell me what’s up with you.”

Keith, chastised, nods. “Uh. Yeah. Of course. Uh, Lance and I are living together. I’m living at Lance’s.”

“Wow, you guys move quick. Thought U-Haul lesbians were actually lesbians.”

“I have to live there. They said my apartment isn’t secure enough with all the fans and stuff, so I have to live at Lance’s.”

“Oh,” she says, tone changing entirely. “Yikes. Is it a mansion?”

“Yeah, kinda. Three bedrooms. They all have windows.”

“Oh no,” Pidge says, to this sentence that would make no sense to anyone else. “Well, there are worse places to be captive, right? Siberia. China. Cincinnati.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. It just feels like he hates me and doesn’t want me there. Like I’m taking up space.”

“No,” she says immediately. “You are not taking up space, there or anywhere. You can’t think like that. Dude, you’re…I’m not gonna say it, cause I’m not here to fix your stupidity, but I promise you’re not a waste of space.”

“Why aren’t you going to fix my stupidity?” Keith says, which is not a normal response at all.

“Because I hope one day you’ll fix it yourself,” she says sagely. “Come on. I went onto the message boards, found the people who were talking the most shit about you, and hacked their pages so now all they can post is gifs from the Wiggles. Let me show you.”

 

* * *

 

The next night, over some of the best pork chops Keith has ever had, Lance asks if Keith wants to help decorate the nursery with him.

“There’s not really a theme at all, I just kinda went on Amazon and ordered a ton of shit, and I’ve been with you so I haven’t gotten the chance to assemble any of it, it’s all just sitting in there.”

Keith saw it all when he first moved in, sitting haphazardly in the other bedroom upstairs. He takes a bite of pork chop; it tastes like ash, suddenly.

“And I thought, it might be nice to do it together?” Lance smiles nervously. “Like, I know you can’t lift anything heavy so I’ll take care of that, but, you know. More fun to do it together, right?”

Keith’s stomach sinks right through him, hitting the floor beneath him in a pathetic puddle. _He must want to live separately_ , Keith thinks. _He wants to decorate the nursery here, in his gorgeous mansion, so the baby can live here and have a good crib instead of a second-hand one and a room with more than one window. And the baby will come here and he’ll say, ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now, you’re not with the other daddy in his terrible apartment.’”_

“Okay,” he says, with a voice that probably sounds as awful as he feels.

Lance gives him a weird look, and Keith returns with a strained smile.

That night, Keith can’t sleep. This isn’t uncommon; it’s hard to sleep with a living human taking up space in his torso and constantly kicking his bladder. But it’s particularly awful tonight. Ironically, Keith thinks it’s the window; his tiny, dark room made the nights very peaceful. Now, even the moon is too much light pollution for him.

He finally gives up around two am. He levers himself upward, which is humiliating, because he used to have actual _abs_ that weren’t hidden behind thirty pounds of baby. Then he makes the laborious journey down the stairs, squinting in the darkness, clinging to the railing like it’s a life raft on the Titanic. He’s thoroughly grumpy when he gets to the sunken den, and perfectly miserable when he opens a cabinet and finds a whole array of fluffy throw blankets to choose from, instead of just one.

He grabs the fluffiest one and wraps himself in an angry little cocoon on the couch. Once he kicks the footrest out he feels better, letting his legs stretch out and taking the pressure off his hips and back, and he wiggles around until he finds a comfortable position. Ironically enough it’s staring out the window, at the fat half-moon hovering over LA.

His brain immediately wants to spin out of control, to weave angry little universes full of self-hate and self-pity, but he puts his hands on his belly and breathes. Tries to quiet the roiling. Tries to keep out everyone’s expectations and judgment and just focus on the moon. The baby shifts, like the tides, and he smiles.

He doesn’t notice Lance come into the room.

“Hey,” Lance says, softly enough to keep Keith from startling. Keith turns his head from the window, sees Lance silhouetted against the light from the entryway door.

“How’d you know I was here?” Keith asks.

“Heard you come down the stairs.” That’s fair; Keith sounds like a baby elephant when he walks around these days. He’s so tired that the normal hot spike of embarrassment is more of a bitter wash. “Everything okay?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Lance nods. “Yeah, I can imagine.” He sits down on the couch, a full arm’s length away from Keith. The distance aches. “Well, I can’t imagine, really. But it sounds awful.”

Keith shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say. All his words are spilled out on the wind.

Lance looks beautiful, though. He wishes he had words for that. He’s wearing a soft t-shirt that says ‘Rio Verde High School Blood Drive’ and looks so worn through that one touch will crumble it to dust. His flannel pants mold to the shape of his thighs and his bare feet poke out, curled up against the carpet. Keith’s throat is dry. _I hope my daughter looks like him,_ he thinks.

“Would TV help? Something easy that’ll put you to sleep? Great British Bake-Off always does it for me.” Lance kicks out the other footrest and flails about awkwardly until he finds the remote.

“You don’t – “ Keith shifts awkwardly, hauls his belly up and over until he’s facing Lance. “You don’t have to, like. Stay up with me. It’s my problem, you can go back to bed.”

Lance looks at him. There’s something heavy in his gaze, tangible. Like there’s twelve million words he wants to say. “It’s our problem,” he says. “We’re in it together. Okay?”

Keith nods, feeling like a kid saying yes to a question because he knows he should, not because he truly understands.

Lance puts on Great British Bake-Off. And what do you know – it does help.

 

* * *

 

 

The garage has become Keith’s personal hell. Everything about it now is the opposite of the sanctuary it used to be. Physically, he has trouble doing any of the tasks required of him; his colleagues are snarky and bitchy where they used to leave him alone; and Prorok’s teenage daughter and her friends come over after school and hover around, watching Keith and tittering, pretending to be visiting her father. Keith’s neck burns with embarrassment every time and his fists clench with anger and he can just picture the tweets of his bloated body put up on the Internet and destroying the last vestiges of his privacy. He can see Kinkade and Griffin telling him he can’t go to work and he has to stay at Lance’s house for his own safety – literally trapped in the house like a kept girl, useless and pregnant.

When he finally gets home he’s in a terrible mood. But Lance is hovering around waiting for him, vibrating like he’s gonna shake out of his skin.

“Hi! What’s up? How was your day? Did you save the world, one motorcycle at a time?”

Keith pauses, one hand braced against the wall as he works the heel of his sneaker off. “What?”

“Yeah, that’s a dumb question, I’m sorry, I’m just soo hyped right now! Okay, so you remember how we were trying to figure out which talk show to go on? Well, we picked one! David Jimenez!”

“David Jimenez?”

“Yeah, he’s not as mainstream as the other ones, but Jimmy Kimmel was kind of an ass after last year’s Oscars and me and Jimmy Fallon are in some weird faux-feud? I don’t know how it started, it was weird, and I like James Corden but my team told me it airs too late so we can’t do that one, and me and David have always gotten along well cause he’s another Latino so we represent the homeland, and I talked to him and he sounds really excited to have us on and he congratulated me on the baby and said he wasn’t going to be too big of an ass, so I’m feeling pretty psyched about it.”

“Uh, cool. Congrats, that’s good.”

“No, that’s not even what’s cool!” Lance starts bouncing between his feet, most likely doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “We were chatting and he said I could bring whoever I want to the taping, and I was all like, ‘Yeah, I know, of course Hunk is gonna come, that’s his job,’ and David is all, ‘No man, you can bring _whoever you want_ ,’ and I was like oh! Great idea! So basically, do you want to come to the taping? It’s not as late at night as they air, it’ll be totally easy to come to, and David said he’ll bump someone so we can get the primetime Saturday night spot and you won’t have to miss any work! They’re super fun, I promise.”

Keith’s stomach sinks again. Fuck, he hates this, he hates feeling like this half the time he’s around Lance. It’s just…he knows what David was implying. It’s the same thing the rest of the world would imply. Lance should bring Allura to the taping. It’s the logical conclusion; it makes far more sense than Lance and Keith ever would.

He’s on the verge of smiling and nodding, the normal things he does with Lance, when he realizes he’s tired of it. He can’t keep pretending that he and Lance are something they’re not. They’ll all be happier if he lets Lance go, and Keith can stop living in this half-true fantasy.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says, swallowing. This is gonna be hard, in the face of Lance’s beaming face. “Or, you know. You could take Allura.”

Lance’s eyebrows fold inward. “Allura?”

“Yeah.” Keith clears his throat, tries to banish the tears that are already gathering. God, he used to be stronger than this.

“Allura _Altea_? Are we talking about a different Allura?” Lance seems wildly confused; it’s making all of this much harder. “Why would I bring Allura?”

Keith shrugs and fixes his eyeline somewhere over Lance’s shoulder. “You guys are real close, and it’ll be nice. She’ll probably really like it. It’s a good move. I don’t mind, I promise.”

Lance’s mouth actually opens, gaping at him. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“It’s _okay,_ Lance, I promise, I’m not gonna get in the way. Just take Allura, it’s a great date, Super…fun. Yeah.”

Fuck, he’s giving Lance an out, why isn’t he taking it? Lance stares at him in complete bafflement for another ten seconds; then, slowly, his face morphs into something more solid and resolute. Like he’s made a decision.

“Okay, so,” he says, and his voice makes Keith’s spine straighten. “I still have no idea what you’re talking about, and I think that’s part of the problem. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say we need some actual communication. Maybe some clarity. Just so we’re both on the same page.”

Keith’s heart immediately skyrockets, adrenaline filling his chest and making his heart pump double time. Fuck, this is really it. He steels himself, tries to gather up the strength he used to have whenever another year went by and no adoptive parents had shown even a passing interest in him. _We’ll be okay_ , he swears to the baby, even as he knows that this hurt is going to be the worst he’s ever faced, _it’ll be just you and me. But we’ll figure it out_.

“Like, I know that this whole thing has been super weird and we’re doing this all backwards and I wasn’t here for the first seven months and trust me, I feel _so_ bad about that.” Lance fidgets as he stands, his words slurring together like he’s got to get this all out in one rush. “And I get that you don’t like me much, and I deserve that, trust me, not fighting that – but let me just say, I am not going anywhere. Like, you can push me away all you want or push me off on Allura or whatever you were trying to do there, but I am not leaving you. We don’t have to date if you don’t want – which would _suck_ , and I would really want that, but that’s neither here nor here – but you don’t get to just push me out of the baby’s life, or your life, for that matter, cause I think you’re _awesome_ , I think you’re fucking amazing, I really like you, like _like_ you, maybe even other l-word you, and I don’t think it’s fair that you’re telling me to date someone else, like it’s kind of cruel if you know that I have a crush on you to try and give me someone else to date, like a pity thing, cause people did that freshman year of high school and it hurt then and it hurts now – “

“Wait,” Keith interjects, because _what?_ “What?”

“It’s not fair,” Lance says, twisting his fingers together. “I don’t know when you figured out that I have a crush on you, and if you didn’t want to date me then that’s fine, I can handle rejection, but don’t, like, give me someone else to date in your place, cause Allura’s great but she’s never gonna replace you and you should know that – “

“ _You have a crush on me?_ ” Keith squeaks.

“ _Yes_ , how many times do I have to say it, you really know how to twist the knife, dude – “

“How long?” Keith demands. He’s so lightheaded it feels like he’s going to faint. “How long have you had a crush on me?”

“Since day fucking one? Since I saw you in that stupid bar? I never got over you, dude, not in Georgia and not here and definitely not now.” Lance’s whole face is bright red.

“Oh my God,” Keith says. “Oh fuck me – oh Jesus – but Allura – “

“Allura’s my friend, yeah, Allura’s great but she’s not _you_. She’s never gonna be you. You’re carrying my baby, she’s – “

“So that’s why you like me,” Keith says, searching desperately for an answer that will make sense. “Because I’m pregnant. Cause it’s your baby inside me.”

Lance furrows his brow. “Do you think I’m that shallow? Jeez, man, no, it’s not because of that. I mean, it’s amazing, I love you so much because you decided to keep her and I love that she’s inside you – yikes, that sounds weird – but, no, it’s because of _you_. Like, you independently of her.”

Keith puts a hand on the wall, blood rushing to his head. _I love you_. Lance just said he loved him. Lance just said he loved him _independently of the baby_.

“Oh God,” Lance moans, reaching up to cover his face. “I just said I love you. Oh God, it’s like high school all over again, _damnit_ Lance, why do you have to go so hard, who fucking _says_ that – “

“I love you too,” Keith blurts, and the whole world stops spinning.

Lance peeks out from his hands, and it’s adorable. “What?” He says softly.

“I love you too,” Keith says, with a smile bursting onto his face and his heart somewhere out of his chest and fluttering up in the stratosphere.

“Seriously?” Now Lance is the incredulous one. “But why were you talking about Allura?”

“I thought _you_ liked Allura! I thought you guys were dating, had been dating this whole time, and you were just with me cause I had the baby.”

“ _What?_ What ‘whole time?’”

“When you were in Georgia, there was this article on People.com, and then I saw you hugging in the hallway while we were talking about the article.”

“ _You read an article on People.com?_ Babe, you know that stuff is all shit!” He gestures grandly. “Allura and I aren’t dating! We never have been! I had a crush on her, sure, when I was _fifteen!_ And now she’s like my sister! And in the hallway, she was just hugging me cause I was freaking out, and she came in and saved our asses from all the douchebags in there, and you – oh God, is that why you were crying? When I found you in that room? Oh, _babe_ – “

“I didn’t know!” Keith yells back. He’s not sure why they’re yelling but he’s so happy he could cry. “I thought you were just pitying me! Everyone told you that you were too good for me, I figured – “

“ _Fuck ‘em!_ Fuck ‘em all! Keith, Jesus Christ, I’m so into you and I’m trying to play it cool and you’re the one who’s too good for me, I thought you _hated me_ – “

“I could never hate you! Who could hate you? You’re _perfect!_ ”

Keith all but screams this, and Lance’s eyes go wide, and the foyer is silent for the first time in a long while. Lance’s chest heaves and Keith is so lightheaded he can see stars and he’s in a brave, bright new world.

“Is there any way that this perfect guy could kiss you?” Lance says, shakily.

“Yeah, go off, I guess,” Keith says, and Lance takes two steps forward and cups Keith’s jaw and ducks down to press their lips together.

The first touch of Lance’s lips sends chills waterfalling down Keith’s spine, and he has to suppress a shiver at how _good_ it feels, how right. He grabs Lance’s shoulders and hauls himself closer, no thought at all to how desperate he looks, and Lance grins against his lips and puts gentle hands on his hips.

“This was a little easier the last time we did this, huh,” he whispers, lips still brushing over Keith’s. The angle is hilariously awkward, Lance’s flat stomach pressed against Keith’s swollen one, and Keith has to crane his neck up and over to reach Lance.

“Shut up,” he mutters, already going back for more kisses. Some dark part of his brain thinks Lance is gonna leave, and he needs to get his kisses now in case he does. “This is your fault.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says agreeably. He pecks Keith one, two, three times, making him blush furiously. “I’m cool with that.”

“I fucking love you,” Keith says. He says it like he’s staking a claim, planting a flag on the moon. He _loves_ Lance.

“I love you too,” Lance says. “God, I’ve never said that outside of a movie. And this feels _so_ much better, oh my God, I’ve been acting that all wrong.” He molds his hands over Keith’s hips. “I never imaged it would feel this good.”

Keith can’t even begin to touch that without self-imploding, so he tucks his face into the crevice of Lance’s shoulders and breathes him in, the springtime of his detergent and the saltwater of his skin. Lance reaches up and plays with the hairs on the nape of his neck. The baby rests quietly inside of Keith.

“How could I ever look at anyone else?” Lance whispers into the shell of Keith’s ear.

Keith remembers crying on the couch, reading a very different People magazine article, feeling his daughter kick, preparing himself for a lifetime where he never felt as good as he does in this moment.

“So don’t,” he whispers back.

 


	4. Part Four

“What do you wear to a talk show taping?” Keith wonders aloud, staring at his meager selection of clothes.

“Something nice, but don’t worry too much about it,” Lance calls back. “You’re not going on TV so it doesn’t really matter.”

“What are _you_ gonna wear?” Keith selects his tried-and-true gray Henley and nice jeans.

“My stylist is gonna meet me there with some options. Her name is Romelle, you’ll love her. All she does is make fun of me.”

“I like her already.” He brings the clothes into Lance’s bedroom and lays them on the bed, where Lance is lounging around, playing on his phone. “Can’t believe I just moved all my shit into that other bedroom and now I have to move it all back.”

“Not my fault you were being weirdly noble and self-sacrificing,” Lance says with a grin. “I’ll move it tomorrow. Hey, next week, dinner at my parents’? They still haven’t met you.”

“Uh, yeah, okay,” Keith says. “Are they gonna hate me?”

“ _Hate_ you? God, no, they’ll love you, you’re giving them a new grandbaby. _Me,_ my mom’s gonna kill me for not using a condom, I’ll get a lecture from her while you get all the garlic knots you can eat.”

“I like that plan.”

“Of course you do. Come on, the car’s gonna be here in fifteen minutes.”

Keith’s oddly nervous on the way down to the taping studio. He’s not sure why; he trusts Lance not to say anything about his pregnancy he’s not comfortable with, he knows Lance rehearsed with David and nothing untoward came out. He knows this will go a long way in rehabilitating Lance’s image, which according to his PR people is still in ‘dire straits’; it’s just that Lance is literally going on TV and talking about _Keith_ and their baby. Lance McClain will be on TV in front of millions of people, and he’ll be talking about _Keith_ of all people. He sometimes still can’t believe this is happening.

Lance is totally unconcerned, laughing and joking with the driver as a beautiful LA day rolls by outside the window. He puts a casual hand on Keith’s thigh and squeezes.

“You need anything, or you feel overwhelmed, you just tell me, okay? Or if you can’t find me, Hunk will be around too.”

Keith nods, and Lance grins.

“You’ll finally get to see my world,” he says.

Lance’s world is _loud_. Backstage is a cacophony of noise, a carefully orchestrated chaos where everyone has somewhere to be and they’re all moving at once. Hunk meets them as soon as they walk through the doors and immediately starts telling Lance about some contract re-negotiation that Keith loses track of thirty seconds in.

“Food!” Hunk says, and scoops Keith up in a hug. “I mean – that came out wrong. Hi, Keith, there’s food over there. Whole spread! David has the best krafty, anything your heart desires. Lance, you can only eat now or after filming is wrapped, what’s it gonna be?”

“Hunk – “ He immediately whines.

“Buddy, we’ve talked about this – once you learn how to eat like a grownup and makeup doesn’t have to reapply your whole face cause there’s barbecue sauce down your shirt, then you can eat during filming. So, now or after?”

Lance groans for twenty whole seconds while Hunk stares unimpressed right back at him. Finally Lance says, “Okay, now.”

“There we go,” Hunk says, and leads them to the table.

It’s there, while Keith stuffs his face with mini-quiches and gourmet cheeses even though he just ate, that David Jimenez makes his appearance. He shows up like a specter, totally unannounced, with a t-shirt and jeans and a big smile.

“Lance! My man!”

Lance cheers clasps hands with David, pulling him to a hug that involves a lot of back-slapping. “My brother,” Lance says with a huge grin. “How _are_ you?”

“I’m good! When would I ever not be? Hunk, how you doin’?” He gives a similar bro-hug to Hunk and then turns his smile on Keith.

“Are you the famous Keith Kogane?”

“Uh – “ Keith says, because ‘famous’?

“He is,” Lance says with a nudge on Keith’s back, like he’s a little kid who has to introduce himself to the teacher. “Keith, this is David. David, this is Keith.”

Keith grips David’s hand; it’s warm and dry. “I’m so excited to meet you. Thanks for coming tonight, it’s awesome that you came to support Lance.”

“Thanks,” Keith says. He believes David, knows that he means it, but he’s once again uncomfortably aware that everyone knows who he is – that he’s famous because he’s the subject of dozens of internet articles, and everyone who’s looking at him doesn’t _need_ him to introduce himself, they already know who he is. He’s been in this building for five minutes and he already regrets coming.

Lance and David are off to the races, catching up on each other’s families and David’s children and something about the latest soccer games, some Mexico vs. Uruguay match that gets them so heated they have to switch to Spanish to properly express their emotions. Someone comes up and requests Lance for makeup and the argument is immediately forgotten. Lance is all smiles and flourishing waves and promises to Keith that Hunk will be right there if he needs anything.

Keith really wants to watch Lance in makeup – the whole process seems fascinating to him, to watch Lance put on his war paint – but he feels like Lance’s words were a dismissal, so he stays by krafty with Hunk. It’s not like anything is clearer in his life, now that he and Lance had a big confession. He’s started sleeping in Lance’s room and they’ve kissed a handful of times, but Keith still has no idea what to call him. Is Lance his boyfriend? Baby daddy? Are they gonna live at Lance’s or his or somewhere else? Is Lance ever going to want to sleep with him again? Is Keith ever gonna get the courage to sleep with _Lance_ again? He wants to talk about it, get some clarity, but he’s so terrified of Lance being on a completely different page that he can’t broach the subject. Eventually Lance will figure out that this is Keith’s first relationship ever and he has no idea what he’s doing, and _then_ what will he think of Keith?

It’s a mess. So Keith eats his feelings.

Hunk keeps him company through all the buildup to the taping, showing him pictures of his gorgeous girlfriend Shay and bemoaning the super difficult design he’s got to come up with for his film engineering class. Romelle, the stylist, comes in with a rolling hanger full of different suits; she’s loud and bubbly, giving Hunk a gripping hug and exclaiming loudly over his Keith and his “precious belly, oh my word!” before Lance yells at her and she rolls the cart over and starts showing him what she’s brought. Keith sits on a stiff-backed chair and watches as the chaos mounts, the noise spiking as the audience takes their seat, stage managers with headsets and clipboards shouting about soundboards.

David reappears, this time in a beautifully fitted suit with a pristine, robin’s egg blue tie and matching pocket square. “How are you doing, Keith?” He says, genuine concern in his voice. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good,” he says.

“Awesome, let us know if that changes. So you’re welcome to watch in the viewing monitors or in the wings. We’ll do a couple takes if something goes wrong but Lance is a pro at this so he’ll probably nail it on the first go. Lance won’t be able to look over at you during filming, so don’t worry, he’s not ignoring you, he just can’t look over in the wings, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Keith says, equal parts annoyed and relieved that David has anticipated a concern he didn’t even know he would have.

Five minutes to showtime, Lance finally returns. Keith’s mouth goes dry at the sight of him; he’s in a gorgeous charcoal suit, slim cut to show off his narrow hips and wide shoulders. His blue button up is open at the neck, exposing the bob of his Adam’s apple, and he’s got shiny black brogues. When his pants rise up, Keith can see the flash of fun striped socks.

“Whaddaya think, babe?” Lance does a twirl.

For the first time, Keith doesn’t have to lie. “You’re stunning,” he says.

Lance’s whole face burns scarlet, and suddenly he’s a dorky kid instead of a cool movie star. “Thanks,” he says bashfully.

Keith stands up, steps closer. “You ready?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m psyched. I get to talk about you and the baby, my favorite people in the world!” His stage makeup looks fake this close; he looks too bright, too shiny, like an enhanced version of Lance. Lance 2.0. “How are you? You need anything?”

“I’m fine,” Keith huffs. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Cause you’re pregnant? Cause last night you were too tired to even reach over for the blanket and you made me get it?”

“Okay, fair. But I’m feeling good! I’ve got this adrenaline rush.”

“Yeah, me too.” Lance puts his hands on Keith’s hips, scooting him a little closer. “Kiss for good luck?”

Everyone’s watching them, even if they’re pretending not to; the stage managers, the cameramen, the makeup artists, everybody is kind of hovering in place, making furtive glances and then immediately looking away. Keith can feel their eyes on him, right through his skin and into his bones; it's fascinating, apparently, this idea that two people would have a good time together, would want to keep the baby they made, might even want to keep it to themselves and that they wouldn't want people to stare at them.

Keith chooses to stop looking at them, forces his eyes up and to Lance. He tilts his chin up and kisses him, lets a simple kiss become a declaration, a battle cry. “Give ‘em hell,” Keith whispers, which is almost certainly not what you tell someone before they go on a talk show. Lance grins, though.

“I will.”

Hunk’s positioned in the wings, leaning against a wall with his phone in hand, so Keith waits by him. The backing band warms up and David does some pre-show warm-ups, looking at himself in a mirror and hyping himself up. There’s an electricity in the air, a lightning and adrenaline that he can feel crackling over his skin. The baby nudges him, and he grins in response. _I’m excited, too._

The band starts up, bright and jaunty, and an announcer begins talking over the roar of the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Goodnight Show! With special guest Lance McClain! Featuring the Goodnight Show Band! Here’s your host – David Jimenez!”

David bursts on the stage to a flurry of applause and screams. Keith claps and Hunk whoops; David doesn’t look over, just waves at the crowd with a beaming smile. “Thank you, folks! Oh, you guys are too kind! Welcome to the Goodnight Show, my name is David Jimenez. We’ve got a great show for you today, Lance McClain is here – “ The audience’s screams spike and David grins. “Yeah, he makes me thirsty too. Hey, anybody tried that kombucha stuff? My wife gave it to me the other day and oh my God – “

He launches into his opening monologue, a hilarious diatribe about how he’s now addicted to kombucha and wanted to make his own before his wife informed him that kombucha is a fungus. They’re all in stitches when David stops for a commercial break and tells them he’ll be back in just a few minutes with Lance McClain. They stop filming to let the makeup people come back in, dust powder over David’s face and fluff up the pillows on the couches. It’s only a few minutes before the band plays again and David is sitting behind the big wooden desk.

“Welcome back, everybody! You’ve heard enough talking from me, so let’s give a big welcome to my good friend Lance McClain!”

The audience erupts when Lance walks out from behind the curtain, beaming and handsome in his gray suit. Keith feels a rush of prickly possessiveness in his chest; Lance is his man, he doesn’t belong to these screaming bitches. Lance gives David another bro-slapping hug and then settles down happily on the long couch.

“Lance, my man, thank you so much for being here!”

“Thanks for having me! Always a pleasure to trash-talk someone in Spanish,” Lance replies with a smile.

“Besides your mother, of course,” David fires back.

Lance gasps dramatically. “ _Claro que no_ ,” he says. “She’ll hit me just for you saying that!”

The audience laughs. “Well, we’re glad you’re here no matter what. You’ve been having a busy couple of days, haven’t you?”

Lance laughs and rubs a hand over his hair as the audience cheers preemptively. “Uh, yeah, you could say that.”

David leans back. “Some happy news, I heard?”

“Very happy, yeah,” Lance says with a nod. “Uh, me and my…my boyfriend, we’re having a baby.”

The audience cheering coincides with the stutter-stop of Keith’s heart. _Boyfriend_. Oh God.

_At least that’s one question answered,_ he thinks, weakly.

“That’s amazing, congratulations!” David says, like this is the first time he’s hearing it. “First kid for both of you, right?”

“Yeah, both of us.”

“How’s it been? When my wife had our first baby, I remember thinking, ‘This is the most bonkers thing in the whole world, and I will never complain about taking out the trash ever again.'”

“Yeah, it’s so wild!” Lance says. “Like, there’s a living person inside him? That’s half of each of us? Like _what?_ Who came up with this?”

“ _Yeah!_ It’s crazy! How’s Keith holding up? He’s in his third trimester, right, is he getting grumpy?”

“Noo,” Lance says loyally, which is such a blatant lie that Keith has to laugh. Lance turns his head to look, like a reflex, but catches himself at the last minute and turns back to David. “No, he’s been great, handling it like a champ. He’s still working, actually!”

“Get out! What’s his job?”

“He’s a mechanic, so he’s on his feet a lot. And he’s a little tired when he comes home and doesn’t want to do much, so I cook and we watch ‘Garrison Varsity – '“ He cuts himself off, face flushing, as the audience coos and David grins like the Cheshire Cat.

“’Garrison Varsity,’ really? Isn’t that a little narcissistic?”

“He started it!” Lance defends. “He started watching it _months_ ago, and now I’m just playing catch-up, it’s on his Netflix account – “ Suddenly realizing what he’s saying, Lance turns all the way around to look at Keith, and then realizes his mistake and _just keeps staring_ , frozen. Keith has no idea what to do, just stares back with wide eyes.

“Oh my God, is he back there?” One of the girls in the audience screams. The rest of them take it up, until the whole studio audience is clapping and cheering and chanting, “Keith! Keith! Keith!” Lance and David are totally frozen, matching wide-eyed expressions of _what the fuck_ , and Hunk starts muttering, “Oh my God, oh my God,” and Keith –

Keith feels like taking a plunge.

He steps out from behind the wings and the crowd goes wild, some of them standing up to clap. Keith almost freezes up when the lights fully hit him, because he forgot how _pregnant_ he is, how much his belly strains against this thin shirt, how fat his ass is and how funny he walks, but he keeps going, because Lance looks totally lost up there and that’s just something Keith can’t have.

Lance is baffled now, a hysterical smile on his mouth. “Babe,” he whispers, but the mic on his lapel catches it and the whole crowd starts screaming again.

Keith starts to realize what a terrible idea this was but there’s literally nothing he can do now but see it through. “Hi,” he says, sounding much braver than he feels. “Hi, David.”

“Hi, Keith,” David says, with a slight undercurrent of hysteria in his voice. “You heard us talking and had to come and defend yourself?”

“Uh, yeah, basically,” Keith says. Someone in all black runs out and passes a handheld mic into his hands. “’Garrison Varsity,’ I watch because it’s fun to make fun of Lance when he was fourteen.”

“Hey!” Lance says, the first thing that’s felt normal about all this. “I was bad to the bone! Marco was very tough! Raised on the streets!”

Keith snorts. “You looked like a puppy trying to growl.”

The entire audience and David crack up. “You’re the worst,” Lance pouts, further proving Keith’s point.

“I’m coming over to watch TV with you guys,” David says. “I need to see this in person. I’ve got so much material to roast Lance with.”

“No!” Lance protests.

“Anytime,” Keith says with a grin.

“Wonderful,” David says. “We’re gonna take a quick break but don’t go anywhere, we’ll be right back with more from Lance McClain and Keith Kogane!”

The band plays them out, and the stage manager bursts out the second that the cameraman signals the all-clear. He grabs David and hauls him off to the side, whisper-screaming with his hands gesticulating wildly. The makeup artists swarm out, five different hands putting foundation and blush and eyebrow gel on Keith. Hunk’s muttering into his phone in the wings, someone strings a lapel mic through Keith’s shirt, and the in the midst of the tempest Lance looks at him with huge eyes and says,

“Babe, _what?_ Why did you do that?”

Keith shrinks in, wishing all these stupid makeup artists would go away so they have a semblance of privacy. “You looked lost,” he defends. “You kept looking over, I just…I didn’t mean to _ruin_ everything, I was trying to help – “

“No!” Lance grabs his hands, turns to fully face him on the couch. “No, you didn’t ruin anything, this is amazing! I’m so happy you came out, I’m just surprised.”

Keith shrugs. “This is your world. And you do so much for me. Figured, fuck it.”

One of the makeup artists can’t stop her grin. “Fuck it,” Lance says cheerfully back.

Off to the side, David is still getting screamed at by the stage manager. David's clearly losing patience, and he finally yells, “Jack, this is ratings _gold_ , I don’t know why you’re so pissed! It’s authentic, it’s amazing, let’s run with it!”

He stomps back to the desk, shaking a smile back onto his face. The makeup artists scatter, and when Keith looks over at Hunk he’s grinning from the wings, giving them two thumbs up. Lance scoots closer and the band starts up and Keith thinks,

_Alright, let’s do this._

“Welcome back to the Goodnight Show!” David says over the clapping. “We’re joined tonight by special guests Lance McClain and Keith Kogane! Now I’ve already congratulated Lance but you’re the one doing the hard work, Keith, so congratulations on your pregnancy!”

“Thanks,” Keith says.

“How are you feeling? Lance says you’re a rockstar, but how’s it _really_ going?”

“It’s garbage,” Keith says immediately, prompting the audience to start howling with laughter. “Lance is lying. There’s an evil little goblin in my body.”

“No!” Lance loops an arm around the back of the couch and pulls Keith closer. “Don’t say that about our love child!”

“Goblin,” Keith reiterates. “Monster. Succubus.”

“ _Noo!_ ”

“The truth always comes out on the Goodnight Show,” David says through his laughter. “Do you know what you’re having yet? Boy or girl?”

Keith and Lance look at each other, and in a moment that Keith will always remember as the start of something amazing, come to a mutual decision silently and immediately. “We know, but we’re not telling,” Lance says. A couple boos rise from the audience, but there are more claps, and David nods in understanding.

“Besides,” Keith says, words flowing before he can stop them, “we only know our baby’s sex, not their gender. That could change as they get older and we’re totally fine with that.”

This time the audience claps and whistles in appreciation. Lance pulls Keith even closer, squeezing his arm, and Keith smiles. _Guess you were right, Pidge._ _You got to me in the end._

“That’s amazing,” David says warmly. “Sounds like you guys are ready to be parents.”

“I mean, we’ll see what happens,” Lance says. “We haven’t even set up the crib yet so don’t give us too much credit.”

David flaps a hand at them. “That stuff doesn’t matter,” he says. “That’s all the fluff. You can do that at the end. You both have the heart, that’s the stuff that really makes you ready. I have three little goblins so trust me when I say this. Y’all are gonna be just fine.”

Claps rise from the audience and Keith lays a casual hand on Lance’s thigh. There’s no panic anymore, no crippling paranoia. He was himself, all of his prickliness and chill, and all the audience did was love it. He called his daughter a goblin and they’re still here. He never thought he’d feel so calm on a late-night talk show, but here he is. “Thanks, David,” he says sincerely.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Lance says, prompting laughs.

“Oh, I intend to,” David says, and his grin has suddenly turned devilish. “We’ve got a game planned here. Originally it was gonna be just for Lance but I think Keith can play too, what do you folks think?” The audience is cheering before David’s even finished speaking.

“Oh God,” Lance says throwing a dramatic hand over his eyes. “Oh this is gonna be so embarrassing.”

Keith, however, leans forward and looks David in the eyes.

“Bring it,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

On the drive to Lance’s parents', Keith can’t decide if he has to pee out of nervousness or normal pregnancy peanut bladder syndrome.

“I told you not to be nervous,” Lance says as they roll through another gorgeous LA-suburbia neighborhood. “They’re gonna love you.”

“It’s just not a good look,” Keith grumbles. “’Here’s my boyfriend, he’s eight months pregnant and he never went to college.’ The baby’s practically here and they’re meeting me for the first time.”

“They get it,” Lance says patiently. He’s already had this conversation with Keith twice already, once over dinner and once over ‘Garrison Varsity’ last night. “I told them what’s up. They get that we needed time to figure this out ourselves.”

“You told them what’s up? So they know that I hid their fucking grandkid from them?” Keith thumps his head back against the car seat. “Awesome. Great.”

“Dude,” Lance says, turning to look over at him. “Babe. It’s fine. You’re just stressing yourself out. They’re not gonna care! They just want to meet you and see the person I’ve been raving about for a month.”

_But I’ve never met the parents before,_ Keith wants to say. _Mine didn’t want me and nobody’s ever cared enough to bring me home. What the fuck am I supposed to say?_

He doesn’t want to say that – doesn’t want Lance to pity him, stop again and reassure him for the twelfth time when Keith should be grown enough to handle these emotions on his own. So he stays quiet, watches the manicured lawns roll by, bright green gems against a periwinkle sky.

Lance is comfortable when he rolls them in, one hand on the wheel as he drives. There are kids’ bikes on the lawn and a tire swing on a giant tree. The house looks lived in, broken in. A home and not just a house.

“They’re gonna love you,” Lance whispers again when they’re climbing up the front steps.

The foyer in this house is much bigger than Lance’s current one, and Keith finds that so comforting. This was Lance's first purchase and the one they're in now is his second, so Lance actually downgraded as he got older and richer. There’s a pile of shoes by the door and a well-organized key rack and a big family portrait, ten people cheesing and smiling and looking so happy and loving that it makes the old wounds inside of Keith throb. Lance grabs his hand and leads him gently inside, and Keith gets to see the same smiling faces again, looking at him from the dining table.

“Hello,” Lance calls, “Hi, everybody, hi McClains!”

“Hello _mijo_ ,” says a woman, short and warm with bushy brown hair. She’s staring at Keith with unabashed curiosity. “Is this - ?”

“This is Keith,” Lance says, pulling him closer by the hand. “Keith, this is everybody. That’s my mom, and my dad, and my brother Luis, his wife Rachel, and my brother Marco and my sister Veronica, and Luis’ kids Isabel and Mateo.”

“Hi,” Keith says, with something like a panic attack building in his chest. This is so many people, _oh my God_. How do all of these people live in one house? How does anybody keep anybody straight?

The little kids, Isabel and Mateo, however around, looking at Keith’s belly like the baby’s gonna break out and say hi. Mrs. McClain correctly interprets Keith’s silence for crippling panic and says, “Shall we go to the kitchen? Get some appetizers?”

“Garlic knots?” Lance says instantly.

“You only come see me for my garlic knots. You don’t even love your mother.”

“You see this?” Lance says. “I’ve been in the house for five minutes and already the guilt begins.”

She tuts and pinches his arm.

The kitchen is huge, clearly meant for feeding a large family, double stoves and a wide counter. It’s way better for Keith’s anxiety than the formal dining room; Mrs. McClain goes back to baking, Lance grabs two of the warm, fragrant garlic knots and stuffs them in his mouth, the kids run off somewhere and Keith gets up on a barstool and leans his arms on the island.

“So, Keith,” says one of the brothers, Keith can’t remember, “How are you doing? Feeling alright?”

“Uh, yeah,” Keith says. “A little queasy, but okay.”

“Have a garlic knot,” Lance says, pushing the plate at him. There’s nothing Keith’s stomach wants less than a garlic knot, but it’s not like he can say no, can he?

It’s delicious, that’s for sure. Keith chews, his fingers sticky with butter, when the sister – Veronica – leans over with a devilish gleam in her glasses. It’s a very Pidge-like look, and Keith is suddenly afraid. “So you got knocked up by my baby brother,” she says.

It’s a factual statement, so Keith has to nod. Lance stops chewing, cheeks bulging with garlic knots like a startled chipmunk.

“Were you a fan before you actually met him? Like, did you follow his career?”

What’s the right answer, here? “I knew who he was,” Keith answers slowly. “But I wasn’t, like, obsessed.”

Veronica nods. “That’s good,” she says, slowly like a viper. “I just wanted to make sure Lance didn’t forget a condom when he was sleeping with his slutty fans.”

Lance chokes on his garlic knots, one of the brothers laughs, and Mrs. McClain shrieks, “ _Veronica!_ ”

“What?” She says, nonplussed. “His crazy fans have wanted to get his sperm for _years_. I just wanted to make sure Keith wasn’t poking holes.”

“Why would you say that?” Lance wails. His brothers choke with laugher.

“Uh.” Keith’s face is bright red. “Uh, yeah, this was…unplanned. I didn’t, uh…I didn’t recognize Lance. For, like, the first hour.”

“You didn’t recognize Lance McClain?” Veronica deadpans.

Keith shrugs, helplessly.

“It’s true,” Lance says, still sounding choked. “You could see it in his face when he figured it out. He didn’t know.”

Veronica locks eyes with Keith for another minute. Keith gets the uncomfortable feeling of being x-rayed. It breaks when Veronica says, out of the blue,

“Alright, you want something to drink? Also, how good are you with spicy foods?”

“I’m great,” Keith says. “The baby, not so much.”

“We’ll fix that,” Marcus says, and Keith finally smiles.

Veronica is assigned dish duty for her remarks while everybody else hangs out in the living room. Turns out, only the McClain parents and Veronica live here – Luis, Rachel and the kids live in LA, and Marco lives with his girlfriend who Mrs. McClain clearly disapproves of if her unsubtle eye roll is any indication. But they all clearly spend a lot of time here – the kids have toys scattered around and climb over the furniture with familiarity, and Mario puts on the Dodgers game without getting confused by the four different remotes. It’s a homestead, a central house. A place for all McClain’s, famous and unfamous and those still yet to be determined.

Dinner is delicious and noisy. Lance may be famous but he’s still the baby, and his siblings tease him in a way that feels well-rehearsed. Mr. McClain is pretty quiet and Mrs. McClain talks with her grandkids. Keith can’t stop watching them, the way they get food all over their hands, talk over each other and scream and say whatever pops into their head. Keith hasn’t been around kids since he left foster care, and he suddenly remembers viscerally that he’s going to have one, and she’s gonna look like this. And she’ll be loud, and weird, with mashed potatoes down her front and little pearls for teeth and big bright eyes. The baby inside him kicks and he feels, for a crazy moment, that he’s going to vomit, because it’s like he can feel her inside him and he can see her in front of him at the exact same time.

But Mrs. McClain’s not freaked out. She’s patient, answers all their inane questions, wipes off their sticky hands and accepts sticky kisses and stays totally unfazed. _At least she’ll know what to do with a baby_ , he thinks, insanely. _If I drop off the baby and run, she’s got this. Back-up plan._

Jesus Christ, Keith is _fucked_.

After dinner he excuses himself for what is becoming an hourly bathroom break, here in the last couple of months. Marco gives him directions that he promptly forgets, and he just wanders around until he finds a room with a toilet. When he comes out it’s quiet for the first time in hours, down here at the end of the picture-lined hall, and it just feels so good.

He sees a flash of bookshelves through a door and can’t help himself. He wanders into a small library, tall cherry-wood bookshelves and soft reclining chairs and a small curtained window. Keith gets a flashback to when he was Mateo’s age, a lost little kid with no room of his own, who had books for friends cause nobody wanted to hang out with him. He wouldn’t have been just excited for a room like this; he would’ve been so ecstatic that he’d ask to _sleep_ here. Who needs a bedroom, cramped and crowded with two other kids, when you could sleep in a library all your own, with peace and quiet and knowledge?

This is where Lance finds him; tracing the book spines with a finger, the other hand braced against his back.

“Hey,” Lance says, and Keith turns. “There you are.”

Keith smiles.

“Got a little Beauty and the Beast thing going on? Should I tell you it’s all yours and you fall madly in love with me?”

“I’m already in love with you,” Keith says, before he can stop himself, “and besides, I’d be the beast and we both know it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lance grins, from one part of the sentence or another, Keith has no idea. “You doing okay, though? Not overwhelmed?”

Keith wants to say no, but if he wants any sort of healthy relationship with Lance, being honest is probably a good start. “A little,” he admits.

Lance nods. “Yeah, I figured. I’m sorry, babe. Do you want to sit down?”

Keith always wants to sit down. They settle together on the little settee, and Lance’s leg pressed up against his feels way too good.

“She giving you trouble?” Lance says, with a nod at Keith’s belly.

“Earlier, yeah. She’s quiet now.”

Lance lays a gentle hand on his belly and swipes his thumb a couple times. “Sleepy girl,” he says fondly.

“Your mom’s really good with kids,” Keith says, out of nowhere. “I was watching her during dinner. She knew exactly what to do with them.”

“I mean, she had four,” Lance says. His hand is still on Keith’s belly. “She’s had a lot of practice.”

“Can she, like – “ He cuts himself off before he says something pathetic like _teach me how to be a parent._

“Babysit?” Lance finishes. “Oh, yeah, 100%. She’ll insist, actually. I mean, we’re Cuban, family is everything. She’ll want to build that strong connection.”

Keith nods. He tilts his head back and tries to center himself. Remembers the breathing exercises Shiro taught him as a middle-schooler with anger management issues.

“It’s so soon,” he says without opening his eyes.

“I know,” Lance says. “But I believe in us.”

_I love you_ , Keith thinks. _I love you so much it hurts sometimes._

He opens his eyes and Lance takes his hand off his belly. In the stacks beside the window a colorful book spine jumps out at him. _Cien Años de Soledad._

He blinks at it a couple times, and then once he sees the author’s name it clicks. “Is that _One Hundred Years of Solitude?_ ”

“Where?”

Keith points.

“Oh, yeah, I haven’t read that since high school. The teacher assigned it in English but we already had it in Spanish and my mom didn’t want to buy another copy so she made me read it in Spanish. I was _not_ prepared to translate for every quiz we had.”

Keith chuckles, imagining a high-school Lance answering in Spanish by accident. He looks back at the book, bright and colorful against all the other plain spines. The words strike something in him, like the ringing of a deep bell that’s echoing in his chest.

“Soledad means solitude, right?” He says.

“Yep,” Lance says.

“And that…that’s a name.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, but with a completely different tone. “Yeah, it’s a fairly common name in Latin American countries.”

“Soledad,” Keith repeats. Solitude. The name means solitude. Memories rise, unbidden, like sea foam to the top of a wave: Keith, in the doctor’s office, thinking _fuck fuck fuck_ ; Keith, watching ‘Garrison Varsity’ and going to sleep alone, aching for human touch; Keith, crying as he read the People article about Lance and Allura as the baby kicked. Solitude, all of it, long days of the quiet pulsing of two hearts in one, alone together against the rest of the world.

Soledad. One hundred years of solitude. Seven months of solitude. And now, nothing but people and colors and electricity, sparking into what was a small and quiet world.

A solitary world.

“Soledad,” he repeats, and he sees the moment that Lance knows, and agrees.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, Lance gets roped into some game with the little ones, and in retaliation he volunteers Veronica and Marco as well, so all of the McClain kids vanish into thin air, leaving only the trail of shrieking laughter in their wake. Mr. McClain, thrilled at the silence, happily vacates to begin washing dishes. Mrs. McClain tells Keith, “Come on dear, let me get you some leftovers.”

Keith follows, stands quietly by as she packs yucca and plantains and spiced chicken into Tupperwares. “Are you feeling alright?” She says warmly. “I know these last couple of months are pretty uncomfortable.”

“Yeah,” he says with a huff. “Pretty done with it, honestly.”

She laughs easily, shaking her head. “Lance was my last, so I can relate. After him, after four kids, I told Alfonso the shop was closed.”

Keith laughs out loud and Mrs. McClain grins at him and piles his arms full of containers. They make their way out to the car, stepping out into the warm, fragrant dark. A gentle kind of night, with no moon, just the illumination from lawn lights sparking up against the tall, old trees. Keith is content, standing easily while Mrs. McClain packs their trunk full of enough food to feed them for a week. He’s a little sleepy, but it’s a good kind of sleepy; he wants to curl up in Lance’s arms, in their sheets that smell like home, and sleep for days.

But when she finally straightens up, arms empty of food, there’s a look on her face.

“Keith,” she says slowly, and oh, he doesn’t like that. “I’m…I’m so happy, I am. Lance is thrilled, and that’s all a mother wants, really.”

He nods, terrified.

“But,” she says, quietly but firmly. “I…I’m sorry, if I overstep, but I have to know…”

Keith knows _exactly_ what she’s going to ask.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” She asks. Her voice is almost drowned out just by the sound of the trees. “He said you didn’t tell him until you were seven months. He…he’s a good man, he would’ve wanted to know. Did you…were you scared of the fame? Did you think he’d leave? Did you not _want_ him as the baby’s dad? He didn’t say how he found out, were you _ever_ going to tell him? Help me understand, Keith, why you would ever keep that from him?”

Keith fights not to cry, his shoulders slumping heavy down his back. He’s tired. He’s so, so tired. He’ll be answering this question for the rest of his life, he knows.

He wants to cry. But this woman – his daughter’s _grandmother_ – deserves to know. If anyone, she deserves to know.

“Mrs. McClain,” he sniffles. “I’m so sorry. I really am…”

“I’m glad you’re sorry,” she says. “But it’s an answer I want, not an apology.”

She reminds him of every guidance counselor he ever lied to. It’s probably about time he tells the truth.

“It was a one-night stand,” he says, baldly. “I won’t lie to you. It was a one-night stand and he went to Georgia right afterwards, and we texted for a bit but nothing serious. And when I found out, I just stopped responding. It seemed easier. He’s _famous_ , and rich, and I’m a mechanic, and I thought I was doing him a favor, honestly. What celebrity wants an embarrassing love child with a nobody? I thought, let me save him the awkwardness and the alimony checks and just…keep it to myself. And, honestly – “ He takes a deep breath, because this actually feels so good to get out. “I thought, he’s gonna dump me anyway, right? It’d be a pity thing anyway, just him checking a box, so I said fuck it, cause it hurts less when you leave first. And there were these articles, about him and Allura – “ Mrs. McClain’s eyebrows fold in. “And I just never told him, or texted him back. And I was never going to tell him, ever. And that was a mistake,” he says, as firmly as he can when it feels like he’s going to shake apart. “That was a mistake, because your son will make an amazing dad, and I shouldn’t have kept it from him. Plus I was heartbroken,” he says, with a horrible wet chuckle. “I was in love with someone I had a one-night stand with, cause I was pathetic, and I would just lay in bed and be so lonely cause he wasn’t there. Now he’s here, and I was a fucking idiot to push him away, cause now I don’t think I ever could again. And that scares the shit out of me, but.” He gulps, because it feels like he’s about to run out of air, and then suddenly realizes he’s said all he wants to say. “Yeah,” he says, lamely finishing the single longest speech he’s ever given in his twenty-one years of living.

He desperately needs it to be worth it, and after a minute his prayers are answered – Mrs. McClain, who has had a smile hovering around her lips for a few minutes now, finally surrenders into a full smile. “Can I hug you?” She asks, and Keith appreciates her checking  _so much_.

“Yes,” he says, and she has to go up on her tip-toes to put her arms around his shoulders. Keith hunches over and hugs her back, and they sway for a minute, Keith’s whole face pressed into the warm fabric of her shirt.

“Thank you for telling me that,” she says. “You make a mother’s heart very happy. You’ll know what that feels like, before long.”

“Guess I will,” he says, muffled into the fabric of her shirt.

“And don’t worry,” she says, rubbing the flat of her palm rhythmically over his sore back. “About Lance leaving you. I’ve never seen him as crazy about anyone as he is about you.”

“Really?”

“He’s only brought two other people home,” she says. “He’s much less of a playboy than people think. And he _loves_ you, and he loves that baby. You’ve made him very, very happy.”

Keith stands up, smiling like a loon, his heart bouncing around in his chest.

“Her name is Soledad,” he whispers, the first time ever saying it to another person, and is rewarded by Mrs. McClain tearing up.

“Oh, I _love_ that name. Oh, how beautiful, Keith – can I   ̶  ?

“For sure,” he says, and she reaches out and fits her had to the warm swell of his belly. She rubs gently, and it should be creepy, but she’s _family_. Keith’s baby has a family. Two, really – the McClain’s with their roots and heritage and history, and Keith’s little found family, Shiro and Adam and Pidge and the Holts, all his people who collected him and made up for lack of blood ties with love and friendship and welcome, open arms. His baby is going to have two families, which is two more than Keith ever had, and he’s so grateful he could cry.

Mrs. McClain’s hand on his stomach feels like home.

 

* * *

 

 

_5 Things We Learned about Keith Kogane and Lance McClain from Their Insane Goodnight Show Appearance_ by Nyma van Dyne, Buzzfeed News

_So if you’re anything like us, you were_ way _too excited for movie star Lance McClain to appear on David Jimenez’s Goodnight Show. After the stunning revelation that he’s expecting a child with mechanic Keith Kogane_, _we’ve been on the edge of our seats looking for answers._

_[LanceMcClainwinking.gif]_

_So imagine our surprise when five minutes into his Goodnight Show appearance…_

_[LanceLook.gif]_

_KEITH KOGANE SHOWS UP! OMG!!_

_[Keith.gif]_

_I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say this was_ not _scripted._

_[LanceDavidsurprise.gif]_

_And through the course of this groundbreaking interview, we learned a lot of things about Lance’s reclusive beau. Take a look below…_

  1. _The pregnancy was unplanned._



_Like, we knew but we didn’t_ know. _While talking with David, who made a passing comment about doing it over with the next baby, Lance went white as a sheet and said, “We didn’t even mean to have this one, let’s not think about the next one!”_

_[JenniferLawrenceOkay.gif]_

  1. _Keith Kogane is a sassy ho._



_The entire interview was full of nothing but piping hot sass – from Keith calling their baby a ‘goblin’, to him making fun of Lance when he bombed the baby food guessing game, to even sassing David, calling him a ‘useless reptile’ at one point. Is it too soon to say we’re in love?_

  1. _He’s a little lost when it comes to babies._



_David’s game for the evening was classic baby shower games: diaper-folding contests, guessing the flavor of baby food, bobbing for pacifiers. Keith was very good at guessing the baby food and scarily quick at the pacifiers (even at 32 weeks pregnant – how does he do it?) but he was totally lost at changing a diaper. Lance blew it out of the water, and Keith was forced to admit he hasn’t been around kids that much. Better figure it out quick!_

_[Yikes.gif]_

  1. _Keith and Lance live together!_



_We’re not sure how long they’ve been together (though from evidence, it’s about 32 weeks), but we did learn one thing – they’re currently living together. Lance made a comment early on about watching ‘Garrison Varsity’ and cooking when Keith comes home from work, and later, Keith said that pregnancy gives him a pass on things like stealing all the pillows from ‘our bed’! We stan a supportive, live-in couple!_

_And finally -_

  1. _He and Lance are_ crazy _about each other._



_This one is more circumstantial evidence, but we’re still pretty sure; Keith and Lance are in love, no matter how they came together. We’ve all been used to seeing Lance making eyes at just the ladies, so him doting on Keith might come as a shock. But it doesn’t change the fact that he still fluffed the pillows for him on the couch and helped him to his feet, and was all-around a super doting daddy-to-be. And Keith had the same starstruck look we all have when we look at Lance McClain._

_[KeithLook.gif]_

_His hand found Keith’s many different times throughout the night, and when Lance was talking about how excited he is to finally meet their baby, we could_ feel _the fond coming off him._

_Now we still don’t know the baby’s gender (they’re keeping that under wraps for now), but one thing’s for certain – they are officially our new favorite Hollywood couple. Mazel tov! #KlanceForever_

_[KeithLanceClap.gif]_

* * *

 

 

There’s a moment in the middle of March when Lance stops to breathe and realizes, for the first time in a while, that things are really, actually, amazingly good.

He didn’t think it was possible, back when he first found out – those awful days crying in Keith’s basement apartment, facing down a future where the father of his child hated his guts. But somehow, they’ve actually made something amazing out of this. They have a relationship, and the beginnings of a partnership, and it’s all in the quiet moments – snuggled up on the couch, hanging up pictures in the nursery, breathing in the same quiet when they’re lying in bed with moonlight splashed over the pillows.

Keith, especially, is an absolute wonder. Lance doesn’t understand how he got so lucky, that his one-night stand would be with _this_ amazing human. He’s hysterically funny, for one thing; when he’s in a smiley mood, he can keep Lance laughing with his dry remarks and biting wit. His work drives him crazy but he still goes, because Lance can tell he still wants to be independent and Lance loves that about him. When they were decorating the nursery Lance thought it’d be cute to surprise him with a totally-built crib. Except Lance had to give up after two hours cause he couldn’t figure it out. Keith walked in, huffed out a laugh, and scooted Lance to the side. He had it built in half an hour at eight months pregnant, so good with his hands and with building things that he didn’t even look at the directions. Lance is in love.

Nothing’s perfect, of course. They still barely leave the house together except to get groceries, no dates or walks or anything, and Lance isn’t sure if that’s how Keith is usually or if it’s because of the paparazzi or the pregnancy or some combination of all three. He’s starting to get a bit stir-crazy but he doesn’t want to push Keith, so they spend all their time inside, eating and watching TV and falling asleep.

And that’s another thing – they still haven’t slept together. They sleep together every night, but they haven’t _slept_ together. They haven’t done anything, actually; every time they kiss and Lance thinks _Maybe this time,_ it never goes anywhere, and Lance is too afraid of hurting him to try for anything more.

Lance isn’t the smartest cookie in the jar, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that Keith isn’t happy with his body right now. Lance can see it in the way he holds himself, the way he winces whenever he drops ungracefully into chairs, the fact that it’s bright sunny spring and whenever they’re home, Keith still bundles up in heavy sweaters. He won’t even change in front of Lance; he always ducks into the bathroom with his clothes, or manages to wait until Lance is somewhere else, and Lance will come back to find Keith already under the covers, wearing a massive t-shirt and a sheepish smile. Admittedly, Keith’s huge. Lance didn’t think he could get any bigger when he first saw him at 28 weeks, but he was so wrong; some days it feels like Keith gets bigger just while he’s at the garage, until his belly takes up his entire lap and his shoulders are dragged back to balance the weight, giving him a swaybacked stance. He has to dig his hands into his back and hold them there to support the weight of his round belly. He’s bigger all over, really, his thighs and hips and ass and even his face getting puffier, and he’s actually started waddling a little, not that Lance would ever say that to him because he likes his balls where they are, thanks. And all of it adds up to a Keith that’s self-conscious and embarrassed and miserable.

Lance gets it, he really does. He knows this has been really tough for a hypermasculine guy like Keith to adjust to and he doesn’t want to diminish that. It’s just…he doesn’t feel the same way. To him, Keith’s body is amazing. Every day he wakes up and gets to see himself inside of Keith, the beautiful new life they created resting happily in Keith’s stomach. They don’t talk much about the early days, cause it’s the fastest way to put Keith in a horrible mood, but Lance is well aware that Keith could’ve aborted, and maybe should’ve. But he didn’t, and every day Lance gets to see him getting bigger, and it’s evidence of something – Keith’s love for the baby or for him or whatever, but it’s proof that Keith chose to keep her, and Lance feels grateful every time he looks at Keith.

He feels… _other_ things too, when he looks at Keith. Whatever disgust Keith has decided Lance feels about his body is definitely not shared by Lance. There’s something desperately, darkly sexy about the way Keith moves, when he stops to catch his breath on the stairs or he groans when he settles into a chair, when Lance catches a glimpse of his belly and thinks, _I did that to him, and everybody can tell._ Literally everybody in the world can take one look at Keith and know that Lance got to fuck him, and Lance got to come in him, and it’s _Lance’s_ baby that’s making Keith waddle and making his ass so thick, and it’s brought out this insane, possessive, _proud_ side of Lance that wants to put his hand on Keith’s belly and yell “Mine!” with a self-satisfied smirk. And then he wants to fuck Keith in their big beautiful bed and paint his insides with come and remind Keith just how they made their daughter.

So, yeah. Lance is definitely not disgusted with Keith’s body.

But Keith is, and he’s fragile, and as strong their relationship is sometimes, other times it feels like it could fall apart with a gust of wind. So Lance doesn’t push, even though they both spend a really long time in the shower sometimes, and even though Lance can tell what Keith’s thinking when he looks at him, because it’s the same look that he’s seen on ten thousand other faces since he was fourteen and first figured out that people _wanted_ him. But he does nothing, cause he can’t risk losing this for his libido. Keith and Soledad are too important for that.

Fortunately, he’s still pretty busy. The studio is in panic mode because Keith is due May 4th and the movie comes out May 8th. Hunk has told them in no uncertain terms that Lance is gone as soon as Keith goes into labor, so they’re all praying for Keith to drop early or horrifically late, which is just fucked up of them. Allura’s taken the brunt of promo, because she’s amazing like that, while Lance does what few interviews and shows he can handle without being far away from Keith. Their Goodnight Show appearance was a massive hit – beyond just assuaging the fans, it somehow made him and Keith male pregnancy icons, showing that there is no such thing as a typical pregnant man, that there are many more types of men that have babies than just the hyperfeminine homemakers seen on TV. There are thousands of comments from men on the chat boards saying they wished they’d had Keith and Lance as an example during pregnancy so they didn’t feel so alone, and thanking them for sharing their story and proving pregnancy can be an empowering masculine experience. Hunk read the comments to them over the phone one day, and Keith got choked up enough to excuse himself to the bathroom.

Maybe they’re icons, but they still have to do laundry, and they still have to go to the doctors’, and it’s the most exciting time of his life but somehow it’s nothing compared to what’s coming, and Lance gets to experience it all with this boy that he’s absolutely fucking crazy about and is somehow crazy about him back, and he never thought he’d say this but things are so, so good. So incredibly, wonderfully, insanely good.

Who knew a night at the bar would lead to _this?_

 

* * *

 

 

“So it just…goes on?”

“Basically.”

“And it doesn’t fall off?”

“No, the suction keeps it on.”

Keith makes a face. “That’s kinda gross.”

“You’re telling me.” Pidge doesn’t look at him, totally concentrated on fitting the breast pump to her. Keith should be more freaked out at seeing his best friend’s boobs, but at this point in their friendship nothing fazes him. When she opened the door the first thing she said was, “I have to pump, I feel like I’m gonna explode,” and all Keith could reply was, “Yeah, exploding doesn’t sound fun.”

Once one is fitted she attaches the other one in total silence. She sighs in relief when they’re both on, eyes slipping closed, and for a while there’s no sound in the room but the quiet, rhythmic noise of the pump.

“Feel better?” He asks after a few minutes.

“Fuck yeah,” she whispers. “I didn’t pump at all last night, I was full up. I felt like a cow.”

Keith snorts, and Pidge shrugs on a flannel over the pump.

“I don’t know, Keith,” she says, running a hand through her bird’s nest hair. “When I was in the hospital all I wanted was to go home. And when I was at my parent’s house all I wanted was to come back here in my own space. Logically I should be thrilled to be here, this is what I’ve been wanting, but…it’s so quiet.”

“I get it,” Keith says softly. Pidge’s apartment is a state of suspended animation – for months she’d prepared it for the baby, and there’s a room and a crib and a playset and a set of bottles in the kitchen, but no baby. Just Pidge, with her red eyes, waiting to finally fill the space. It’s eerie, and lonely, and sad.

Keith’s glad she called.

“I don’t think logic has much to do with it,” he says. “You’re super emotional right now, that’s normal. Your hormones – “

“Oh God,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t even talk to me about hormones. Yesterday I cried at an Allstate commercial because there was a puppy, and apparently that’s enough now to make me lose it.”

That makes perfect sense to Keith – if his sick baby was in the hospital and he saw someone holding a puppy, he’d definitely lose it too – but he’s pretty sure Pidge will protest that she’s better than illogical emotions like that, so he just pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, trying not to jostle the pumps.

“When will you see him again?” He asks.

“I’ll stop by in the afternoon when I drop the milk off. I really should do some work for this client, but Archie’s opening his eyes and he’s off the ventilator and they’re letting me hold him for longer, so I’m not really in the mood for coding – “

“Why are you even still working?”

“Cause I thought I’d be home,” she snaps. “I thought I’d have a healthy sleeping baby and I’d work on only my biggest clients while he took naps. But I have a sick baby who came two months early, and all my careful plans are totally busted, and maybe I wanted to keep my biggest client’s work to prove that I could. And if it was a mistake then it was my mistake to make.”

“Alright,” he says soothingly, looking at the tears gathering in her eyes. “Alright, I get you, you’re alright.”

“And I just…” Oh shit, she’s crying, it’s happening. “I only kissed one girl before I got pregnant, and I’m never gonna kiss another girl again, cause who wants to deal with _this?_ ” She gestures at the pumps and Keith can’t help it, he has to laugh.

“ _Keith!_ ”

“I’m sorry, I know I’m an asshole, it’s just you look so weird, you’re like a cyborg – “

“This will be you soon! You can be the pregnant Borg!”

“Pregnant Borg,” he gasps, laughing again, and she’s forced to smile, tears pooling in the corner of her mouth.

“You asshole,” she says, with more than a touch of fondness.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, getting himself together. “I am. That sounds tough. But someone will want to kiss you, and love you. The, uh, prettiest girl in the world.”

“Thanks,” she says drily.

“So pretty. She’ll be so pretty.”

“Stop saying pretty, I don’t even really like femme girls. Give me some cute badass with a ponytail and Doc Martens.”

“That,” he says lamely. “You’ll get her, and she’ll love you and Archie, and she’ll want to kiss you every single day.”

“I guess you did get Lance McClain,” she admits. “Even though you look like the Goodyear Blimp. So that’s encouraging.”

At the mention of Lance, Keith’s stomach goes squirmy, and he looks away. “Yeah,” he says, and coughs to clear his throat. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I haven’t seen you guys in the news anymore, are you just totally shacked up and not leaving the house?”

“Not leaving the house, yeah, but not the…the ‘shacking up’ part.”

She looks at him blankly. “Not shacking up? Have you not fucked yet?”

Keith gestures dramatically at his very pregnant stomach.

“You know what I mean, smartass. You’re dating Lance McClain and not fucking? If I leaked that every teen girl in this country would murder you. Shit, I’ll fuck him, let me at ‘em.”

“No you won’t,” he snaps, and then flushes at her knowing grin.

“What exactly are you waiting for? If you’re waiting until the baby comes I can tell you that’s a dumb plan. Having just had a baby, there is nothing I want less than a firm object in my disaster zone of a vagina.”

That was exactly Keith’s plan. But the thought of sleeping with Lance right now, looking the way he does…the thought is so pitiful and humiliating that Keith has to push away the thought to keep from cringing.

“There’s no way he wants to sleep with me,” he says. “Trust me.”

Pidge raises an eyebrow. “If you say so. Personally, I think the evidence is not in your favor. It sounds like you’re projecting your own insecurities.”

“That’s what you were just doing,” Keith fires back. “Talking about how no girl is ever going to kiss you.”

“Yeah, so is it that hard to believe for you? Any possibility of you taking your own advice?”

Yikes. That’s a call-out if Keith’s ever heard one. “No possibility,” he murmurs, after an uncomfortably long silence.

Pidge gives him an amused smile.

“Maybe there’s an in between,” Keith says. “Where we can do…something that’s not that.”

“Yeah, that’s called a blow job.”

“ _Pidge!_ ”

She cackles.

“No, like something we can do together. In public. Start leaving the house.”

“Yeah, you need that,” Pidge says. Never mind that she only leaves her house to go to the hospital. Keith doesn’t feel like calling her out on it today.

“Wanna play Zelda? For old times’ sake?” He asks.

The grin on her face is all the answer he needs.

 

* * *

 

 

As usual, all the credit goes to Hunk. He’s the one who set up the shoot, handled payment on Lance’s credit card and got Lance there on time without suspecting a thing. When Keith came to him with his idea, Hunk only heard about a minute of Keith’s stumbling explanation before saying, “Oh, that’s a great idea, I know the perfect guy, lemme call him right now.”

It’s nice that Hunk is calm, because Keith’s so nervous he could vomit. Even when he’s upstairs in the studio, he’s desperate to run away and hide under his blankets. Lance walks in right on time, eyes roving around the giant room, the circle lights and luxurious couch, eyes finally landing on Keith with his brows furrowed in confusion.

“Babe, what is all this?”

Keith swallows around the pineapple in his throat. “It’s, uh. It’s a pregnancy photo shoot.”

Lance’s mouth drops open.

“You like the pictures Colleen took so much,” Keith says, awkwardly. “Like, you always love that part of dinner, and we don’t have any pictures of us together that aren’t pap shots. You could put them on your Instagram and…yeah. Does that – “ He falters, shifting his weight. “Do you like it?”

“ _Like_ it? Babe, I _love_ it! I’m so excited, I thought you’d hate this stuff, oh my God – who’s doing it? The photographer?”

“He’s around here somewhere,” Keith says, and like he’s been summoned, the photographer strides out.

“Oh my God,” Lance says, “ _Lotor?_ ”

“In the flesh, darling,” he says, sweeping down to kiss Lance on the cheek. Keith has to battle down a wave of jealousy, because Lotor is, bar none, one of the most beautiful humans Keith has ever seen. He’s so tall, easily 6’4”, with endless legs and broad shoulders and a tight ass. He’s got flowing blonde hair that hangs between his shoulder blades, and it should look ridiculous but instead it looks amazing, like a male Rapunzel. Keith’s feeling real shit about letting this beautiful man photograph him, but Hunk assured him Lotor is the best in the business.

“How did we get you?” Lance says with a grin. “Aren’t you booked solid for months?”

“I adore male pregnancy shoots,” Lotor says immediately. “They’re my favorite, and with such a beautiful couple the results will be spectacular. Plus,” he gives a little wink, “You’re paying me out the nose, darling.”

Lance just laughs. “I’m sure I am,” he says, looking fondly at Keith.

“Do either of you need water? Any snacks?” When they both shake their heads, Lotor clasps his hands together. “Then let’s get started. Keith?”

He leads Keith to a changing room and a single assistant. Keith keeps an out eye out for any horrible, gauzy, flowing shirts that expose his belly, but instead he’s given a simple pair of black sweatpants, fitted but not tight and cinching in at the ankles, and a black v-neck. He walks out barefoot and the assistant gives him a light dusting of powder. Lotor stands at a table, fitting together his camera.

“Keith, let me tell you my philosophy about this shoot, and you tell me if you agree,” he says. “I’ve been following your press appearances, your interviews. You continue to work despite Lance’s absurd wealth because your independence and craft are important to you. You comfortably admitted on the Goodnight Show that you don’t have a lot of experience with children. You refuse to conform to society’s expectations about male pregnancy, and you have become a symbol for a newer, more modern pregnant man. Now, if this shoot was to follow a more traditional theme – flower crowns, princess sashes, gentle pastel colors – I don’t think you’d enjoy that much, would you?”

Keith has to grin. “I’d hate every second of it.”

“I thought so,” Lotor says. “Here’s what I was thinking instead – minimalist. Black, white and grey. Exploring the masculine and feminine aspects of pregnancy, your pregnancy. You and Lance in your joint rules as father, as partners and equals, rather than him as the paternal and protective and you as the maternal and nurturing – both, breaking the boundaries, shattering expectations. How does that sound?”

“That sounds…” Keith has to swallow, take a second to calm his beating heart. “That sounds awesome.”

“Beautiful. Let’s get to it.”

Lotor starts with just Keith, bringing him into the middle of the studio, no furniture or ornamentation but a plain white backdrop. Lotor tells him to just be comfortable. Keith’s not sure what exactly to do, so he just stands in various positions, something smiling, sometimes not. Lotor never tells him to cup his belly or look tenderly at it; sometimes Keith puts his hands on his back or a hand on his stomach just cause it feels god, and Lotor just keeps snapping away. Lance, dressed in his own similar outfit but a dark heather gray, watches with a smile on his face.

When Lance gets called up to join Keith, his smile and the way he hurries over makes Keith burst out laughing. “You dork,” he says, and hears Lotor’s camera _click click click._

“You just look so good,” Lance says, and he leans in to plant an exaggerated kiss on Keith’s cheek, one hand resting on his stomach. Keith scrunches up his nose and hears _click click click._ “Aren’t I allowed to want to get in the picture, since I made the baby?”

“You made the baby?” Keith says incredulously. _Click click click._ “Who’s body is she in? Who is 80% belly at this point? 'Made her' my ass – “

“Nooo,” Lance says, holding him from behind, hands covering Keith’s belly even as he tries to squirm away. “Noo, I made her, I was there, I helped – “

“You _helped_ by not wearing a goddamn condom – “

“Lotor, tell him he’s ruining the photoshoot!”

“Quite to the contrary,” Lotor says, and Keith can’t see his face but he can certainly hear his smile.

Next, Lotor directs them to a long, low white couch. He tells Lance to sit and Keith to stand, but otherwise leaves them to their own devices. Lance is way too comfortable in front of a camera, giving different faces and poses without prompting, while Keith makes the same face every time and only varies it to smile. Eventually his back starts aching, as is tradition, so he sits down and Lance sticks his cold toes under his thigh, and they scuffle and play-fight while Lotor smiles behind the camera.

Keith’s feeling comfortable, shoulders loose and smile easy, and he starts to think maybe this photoshoot stuff won’t be so bad when Lotor calls,

“Keith, if you’re comfortable, I’d love to get you with your shirt off.”

Oh, look. He’s terrified again.

“Uh. Do we have to?”

“No,” Lotor says calmly. “It’s whatever you prefer. I would just love to explore the shoot with a little more vulnerability.”

Vulnerability is the exact opposite thing Keith wants. He shifts around on the couch, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Lance will have his back, Lance hasn’t pushed him at all, Lance will let him back out –

“I can take my shirt off too,” Lance offers. “If that makes you feel better.”

Keith whips his head around, staring at Lance in dismay. Lance is totally unaffected, just the tips of his ears a bit pinker as the only sign of discomfort.

“That sounds wonderful,” Lotor says. “What a beautiful expression, two halves of a whole.”

Keith would like to flee. He’s like to run away and hide in Siberia. As far away from this photoshoot as he can.

“Come on, babe,” Lance says. He inches a hand across the couch to clasp Keith’s. “It’s just us, right? Nothing to be afraid of.”

His eyes are wide, earnest – hopeful. There’s a little half-smile hovering around his mouth, like he doesn’t quite have enough to smile about yet.

He wants this. Keith can’t say why. But he wants to do this, here, with Keith. How much else has Lance wanted to do that Keith’s never seen?

Lance takes off his shirt in an easy swoop, displaying his beautiful chest, sculpted without being bulky, broad tanned shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. This might be easier if he was a woman, Keith thinks. If he already had curves and valleys, instead of once having a body like Lance’s that’s been changed so drastically.

But Lance is standing so hopefully, totally silent in the well-lit studio, daring Keith to be brave with him.

Keith grabs at the hem of his shirt with shaking fingers and tugs it off.

He shivers at the cool air on his bare skin, and he immediately wants to grab his shirt, to hide the stretchmarks if nothing else. They weren’t so bad in the beginning, small and spidery; they now stretch all the way up past his belly button, fat dark disruptions in his skin, making his belly look like a mottled mess. And his pecs are puffy and his hips are flared and his toes look like little sausages and –

“Oh, babe,” Lance says. Lotor’s camera clicks, but Keith can’t tear his eyes away from Lance. “You are stunning.”

Keith hiccups a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“I mean it.” Lance steps closer and places slow, delicate hands on his belly. _Click._ “You’re…oh my God. I’m so…wow.”

“Thought you were supposed to be good with words,” he replies, because in the midst of all this madness, teasing Lance still feels natural. “Aren’t you an actor or something?”

“Nah, they give me lines to say,” he says with a grin that makes Keith’s knees go weak. “Right now, I’m just a normal dude who can’t figure out what to say in front of his gorgeous boyfriend.”

“Sap,” Keith says, to distract from the fact that he’s aflame, from his face to his chest to the pit of his stomach. Every inch of him is on fire.

Lance slides a little closer and _fuck_ but the friction of their skin feels so good. Keith shivers into it, something deep in him yearning. In between all of the chaos it’s been easy to forget how they made the baby everyone’s so obsessed with – but the truth is that Lance and Keith were so attracted to each other, even in the neon lighting of a shitty gay bar in southeast LA, that they had to get a taste of each other. That’s how all this started; until this moment, Keith had almost forgotten.

He remembers now – how huge Lance’s hands are, how easily they fit against his hips and his ass, how tight they wrapped around his cock, which is standing at attention in this these thin sweatpants. He spares a passing thought for poor Lotor, whose photoshoot is about to be ruined by Keith’s untimely erection, but it’s Lance who tilts his hips away from the camera with steady hands.

“You good?” He asks, laying one hand on the back of Keith’s neck, pulling them even closer. _Click click._

“Never better,” Keith says, his voice a low rumble. When Lance’s lips meet his, it feels inevitable. There’s electricity in their lips and they fall together like rain.

Lotor lets them lazily make out and then asks them for a different pose with no small measure of amusement. Lance spins them to the side, hooking his chin on Keith’s shoulder and linking his hands under Keith’s belly, and Keith tips his head back and smiles. For the first time in a long, long time, Keith feels _sexy_. He’s got stretchmarks, yeah, but they seem so much less important when Lance’s hands are on them. His hips are wide, but that’s all the better for sitting on Lance’s lap. He’s spent eight fucking months hating his body, and for what? Lance clearly doesn’t mind the way he looks, if his wandering hands are any indication. Is it impossible to believe that he could _like_ his body right now? He’s proud, suddenly, of every stretch mark and bulging vein and cellulose, because they’re doing  _work_. They’re carrying his kid, Lance’s kid, and how could anyone not think that he’s amazing right now when he’s the bearer of a miracle?

His eyes tear up and reaches up to wipe them off. “It’s okay,” Lotor says gently. “It’s part of the process. This will help men who are going through this journey. God knows I did my share of crying.”

Keith’s head jerks up, and Lotor catches a picture of his red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. “You – you were pregnant?”

“Twice,” he says with a smile. “I carried both my sons. My husband felt no strong calling to be pregnant, so I took it on. I would have loved to know someone like you was out there going through the same thing I was. I felt like I was the only one who hated frilly pink paternity shirts and obsequious, vapid platitudes about my ‘glowing womb’. I was vilified for still working and my job is far less physically demanding than yours.”

Keith nods, scrubbing at his eyes. Lance rubs at his back with slow, soothing motions.

“What you’re doing is important,” Lotor says, with quiet conviction.

Keith nods, because he’s truly starting to believe him.

When he turns back to Lance, he’s met with gentle touches and concerned eyes. “You sure you’re okay, babe?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Keith says, and to demonstrate he tugs Lance down into a kiss again. Lotor makes an exasperated noise that Keith valiantly ignores.

“Talk about pregnancy mood swings,” Lance says, voice muffled by Keith’s lips.

“Tonight,” Keith says.

“What about tonight?”

Keith tugs his head down and fits his mouth to the shell of Lance’s ear. “You’re gonna show me how good I look,” he whispers, because he’s made a decision and he doesn’t want to give himself the opportunity to back out. Lance’s pupils dilate till he’s looking at Keith with wide, hungry eyes.

“Remind me how we made her,” Keith whispers.

Lance’s chest heaves under Keith’s palm, heartbeats thudding underneath his skin.

The photoshoot goes quickly after that.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re barely through the house door when Lance is on Keith – kissing him hungrily, messily, teeth and tongues and lips so uncoordinated you’d think Lance had never kissed before. He can’t help it – he’s desperate to get his hands on Keith, now that he finally has permission, and he’s half-convinced that Keith will retreat and he’ll never get this chance again.

“Lance,” Keith huffs, clutching behind him at the banister. “Slow down, you’re eating my face – “

“Can’t wait,” Lance says, hands reaching around to grab Keith’s ass in two handfuls. “God, Keith, please, let’s just do it on the stairs – “

“ _Fuck_ no, I am thirty-three weeks pregnant, we are going to our own bed – what has gotten into you?”

“You’re beautiful,” Lance blurts. “And you never let me tell you and you never believe it. And I think you might believe it now so – I want to. You deserve to feel good.”

Keith looks at him so tenderly Lance’s chest might cave in – all dark eyes and floppy bangs and flushed cheeks. He puts his hands on Lance’s shoulders, slowing his frenetic pace.

He kisses him, slowly and deliberately, while leading him up the stairs. (Keith’s almost fallen down these stairs more times than Lance can count, but when sex is on the table he can climb them backwards with his lips attached to Lance’s.) The sun is just setting when they arrive in the bedroom, throwing butter-gold light all over the room from the wide balcony doors. Lance breaks away from Keith to grab a candle, lighting it on the bedside table despite the room being plenty bright.

“Just like the first time,” he says to Keith’s confused look. “At the Ritz. Remember?”

Keith flushes and puts a hand on his belly, and that shouldn’t do anything to Lance but by God it makes his dick jump in his pants. And he knows Keith has no idea, which is criminal, because people have had no problem telling Lance how sexy they thought he was since he was fourteen, but Keith – beautiful, gorgeous, sexy Keith – has no idea. _No_ idea what he does to Lance.

And that just won’t do.

“You know what you do to me, right?” Lance walks forward and leans down, planting his hands besides Keith’s hips, pressing close to his flushed face. “You know I’m not kidding, or anything. You have to know that.”

“Yeah, okay,” Keith says breathlessly.

“I mean it.” Lance leans in to kiss him and Keith falls backwards onto the bed, Lance chasing him down. “Keith, I fucking worship you.” His hands trail at the hem of Keith’s shirt, brushing tantalizingly at the warm skin of his hips and belly. “At the shoot today, you showing off your belly for me…letting everyone know what we did together, letting everyone know that you love me enough to carry my baby…” He rubs a hand under Keith’s shirt, plants it possessively on the taut, warm surface of his belly. “Jesus, babe, I about _lost_ it – “

“So do it,” Keith whispers, shifting on the bed. “It’s been months, Lance, fucking do it – “

“No one else? No one else has fucked you since?” His heart leaps and twists at the thought. “Please tell me that, please – “

“No one,” Keith says, and Lance bites down on his lip. “God, who else? The last time I even kissed someone was that night at the Ritz with you.”

Lance has no choice but to kiss him after that.

He’s sure there’s some protocol about sleeping with your pregnant boyfriend – the magazines would probably advise flowers and romance and gentleness – but he thinks if he would suggest any of these Keith would throw him out the window. Keith takes his clothes off with such immediacy that it’s all Lance can do to keep up. He sits up to whisk his shirt off and then lays back down to wiggle his pants off his hips. He growls when he kicks at the pants legs that are hooked around his ankles, and Lance pulls them off because otherwise he thinks Keith will just rip them off. Keith grins at him, a feral thing, and then hooks his thumbs around his boxers and drags them off.

And _finally_ Lance can see every inch of Keith, laid out on the bed like the greatest gift, miles of creamy skin and thick curves and his red, leaking dick, snugged up tight against the bottom of his belly.

“Oh shit,” Lance whispers. “Babe – “

“You worship me, I get it, fucking do something about it!”

Lance drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, tugs Keith forward by the hips and swallows him whole.

Keith shouts and folds in half, as much as he can with his belly in the way. Lance can’t see him at all, the upper curve of his belly completely blocking his face, so he focuses on the rhythm, the motion of swirled tongue and hollowed cheeks. He hasn’t had sex since the Ritz either, but it’s like riding a bike. A dick bike.

He pops off, letting Keith’s dick rest against his cheek. “I can’t see you, babe, so can you make some noise so I know if this is good?” He thinks it’s going well, judging by the tremble in Keith’s beautiful, peachy thighs, but he wants to make sure.

“I am two goddamn seconds from coming,” Keith says immediately through gritted teeth. “I can’t even get myself off so _will you fucking finish –_ “

Lance knows an order when he hears it. He ducks back down, dives deep enough that Keith’s pubic hair touches his nose, and sucks and sucks until Keith comes down his throat with a strangled shout.

The punch of salt is totally unexpected, makes him want to spit it out, but he gets it together and swallows it all down. There’s also _so much of it_ , a truly impressive amount of come. When he finally swallows it all and stands up on creaky knees, Keith’s arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes and his chest heaves with breath.

“You okay?” He asks, rubbing a gentle hand over his hip.

Keith doesn’t answer for at least 30 seconds. “Oh fuck that felt so good,” he finally says, his voice like gravel. “Fuck. That was amazing.”

“You came really fast.”

“You try not being able to reach your dick,” Keith deadpans. “See how easy it is to get off then. It’s been, like, a _month_.”

“Poor baby,” he says soothingly. He’s still got a massive erection of his own but it feels like poor form to mention that now. Instead he crawls up onto the bed to lay beside Keith, one hand reaching up to play with his hair. The sun’s further down in the sky now, shifting the shadows in the room, the little candle throwing a circle of light against the wall.

Keith moves his arm off his face, and Lance’s heart _thuds_ at his loose, toothy smile. “I’m good to go another round, by the way. I’m just catching my breath.”

“Thank God,” Lance says, and Keith laughs. It’s a new laugh, one Lance hasn’t heard before – a tired, fond little chuckle. It’s beautiful, but Lance thinks that about all of Keith’s laughs.

“You just want one thing,” he says. “That’s what got us in this mess.”

“Exactly. I saw you at the bar and thought, ‘I’d love to have a scandalous unplanned pregnancy with that man.’”

Keith laughs again, which Lance never tires of hearing. He never thought he’d hear it again, during those first months.

“What did you think of me?” Keith asks, in a totally different tone of voice. “When you saw me at the bar.”

Lance has to think back, because it’s hard to think about any other Keith when he’s got this one naked and relaxed in front of him. But it doesn’t take long to call up the image – the air sticky with summer, the glass sweating in his hand, the tacky, puckered wood of the bar, and sitting there all by himself –

Keith. Everything he was, and everything he wasn’t.

“I liked your hands,” Lance says. Keith makes a face. “Don’t make faces, they’re nice. You were wearing your stupid fingerless gloves and I thought they looked kinda sexy. Your hair was all in your face and you were scowling and it was like you were daring someone to come up to you. I figured you wouldn’t recognize me, which is always a plus, but…I don’t know, babe. You were your own little island. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he wants some company. Maybe it’s a fun island to be on.’”

One side of Keith’s mouth twitches up into a smile, then the other one, until he’s beaming at Lance with his cheeks scrunched up.

“Alright, I’m done resting,” he says, and tugs Lance back down.

The kiss turns hot and heavy quickly, and Lance’s erection goes from half-mast to full sails so quick it hurts. He brushes a hand over Keith’s chest on the way to his belly, but the second he touches Keith’s nipples he gets a hiss.

“Not good?” He says, drawing his hand back.

“No, very good,” Keith says, tendons on his neck bulging. “Just – gentle, gentle, they’re sensitive – “

Lance leans down and licks one.

“How is that ‘gentle,’ you ass!” Keith yelps, hand gripping tight in Lance’s hair. “Fuck, fuck – “

Lance rolls the other one in his thumb, loving the way it’s dark pink with blood, as Keith squirms and moans. He’s never been with anyone this responsive before; he’s not sure if it’s because of Keith or the pregnancy or both, but it’s amazing. Kissing the skin of his belly makes him exhale shakily; licking the hard nub of his belly button makes him groan; sucking hickeys into the pale, fuzzy insides of his thighs makes Keith quake. He continues kissing the underside of his belly while one hand reaches into the beside table and pulls out a bottle of lube. He makes eye contact with Keith and raises the bottle in a silent question, and Keith nods with no hesitation.

With Keith on the edge of the bed and his feet kicked up, Lance kneels on the floor to get a proper look. He never saw this side of Keith, that night at the Ritz; Keith did all his own prep and rode Lance on top, so Lace never truly saw him. Now he’s got an uninterrupted view, and it’s as beautiful as the rest of Keith. He ducks down to press a kiss right to the puckered skin, and Keith’s feet twitch on the bed.

“Next time, I’m gonna eat you out,” he promises, fingers stroking along Keith’s hole, watching it twitch with every pass of his fingers. “I’ll lick you for hours. But I need to be inside you, babe, I’m dying out here.”

“Yeah, alright.”

Keith’s breathlessness gives him energy, the knowledge that Keith’s into this just as much as he is, so he wastes no time in coating his fingers liberally with lube and gently slips the first finger inside. Keith’s breath hitches so Lance keeps it light, keeps it gentle, until Keith’s breathing evens out and he can slip in another finger. The sun’s fully set now, only the candle providing light to the room, and Lance feels reverent with it, like he’s a child on his knees in church, incense in the air and the weight of something ancient and immense surrounding him.

Keith’s cock has plumped up again, long and thick against the crease of his hip. “God, your cock is beautiful,” Lance says, almost to himself, and pressed a kiss to the sensitive, baby-soft underside. “I can’t wait until you can fuck me.”

Keith says nothing to this so Lance continues his ministrations, tucking in a third finger. But then Keith starts moving, planting his hands and squirming. Lance withdraws his fingers as Keith finally sits up, eyes wide.

“What’s up, babe? Want me to stop?”

“Did you mean that?” Keith asks, breathlessly. “You actually want me to fuck you?”

Lance isn’t sure what to say. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Seriously? Like you would actually bottom for me? Even after I have the baby?”

“Big time,” Lance agrees. “I love bottoming. It indulges my inner laziness.”

He grins, but Keith doesn’t laugh. He looks completely overwhelmed, like he’s going to cry. His noise is red and twitching, like a bunny’s.

“Babe?” Lance says slowly.

“I love you,” Keith says, fierce like a tiger. “Seriously. Now _fuck_ me.”

“I can do that.”

Lance stands up, hooking Keith’s legs around his own hips, standing at the edge of the bed. He lines up, feeling oddly nervous, like this is his first time. Compared to his first time, this feels much more important. “Is this alright? This feel good?”

“ _Yes_ Lance, Christ, I’m begging you – “

Lance slams in to the hilt, and Keith cuts off with a moan.

“How’s that?” Lance says with a grin. He pulls out, agonizingly slow, and then pistons back in. Keith gives a hitched little cry, his face scrunched up.

“Lance,” he says, a beautiful whimper. Pride fills Lance’s chest, big and hot, just from Keith saying his name like that.

“Yeah, baby,” he says, reaching down to hold Keith’s hips.

Keith comes alive, all the emotion and passion that he normally tamps down rising to the surface in moans and cries and fingernails on Lance’s arms. Lance feels buoyant, with this warm happy boy underneath him, with his flushed skin and tight hips and burning walls, swallowing him up like they’re made to fit together. With every jolt, Keith’s round belly jumps and his chest jiggles, and it’s all Lance can do to not nut on the spot and ruin this when they’re just getting started. So he buckles down, grabs one of Keith’s legs and hitches it onto his shoulder, because this is going to be the best sex of Keith’s life or Lance won’t be able to live with himself.

“Remember,” he says raggedly. He can feel the sweat sticking to his burning chest. “Remember. This is how we made her.”

“Think it looked a little different,” Keith says cheekily. Lance wants to kiss the jut of his collarbones. “But yeah. I remember.”

Lance reaches a hand down to his belly and watches Keith’s eyes go liquid. “I remember.”

He spears in, chasing his edge. He can’t cave into the heat in his belly until Keith comes again, so he reaches down and rolls Keith’s nipples in his hands. Keith shouts, fingers clenching tight onto the bedspread and Lance feel it, can feel both of them getting closer. He tilts his pelvis, pulls Keith’s other leg up, and is rewarded with his boyfriend letting out a pornographic moan. There’s the spot.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “Come on, one more, I know you can – “

Keith’s eyes close up, his face a tight little ball, and Lance snaps his hips forward and Keith comes untouched, shooting ropes of come all over the underside of his swollen belly, and that alone sends Lance over the edge. His brain whites out, static between his ears, and it feels like he stays airborne for a year.

When his brain comes back online, his first thought is _Jesus, I am swimming in my own come._

“Oh, eww,” he says out loud.

“What’s ‘eww?’ My ass?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Very romantic,” Keith says, but his eyes are sparkling and Lance thinks he doesn’t mean it.

He bends down over the mound of belly to kiss Keith, taste the salt on his lips. Keith licks into his mouth like a cat all while squirming in place. Lance takes the hint and pulls out, and they both hiss at the separation.

“Oh, that’s the worst part,” Lance says. He looks down and is instantly transfixed by the sight of his own spunk leaking out of Keith’s wrecked hole. He fucked Keith so hard he’s _dripping_ out of him.

His cock gives a traitorous twitch.

“So, uh, babe,” he says as he goes into the bathroom to get a washcloth (and tear his eyes away from the sight, because _neither_ of them can go another round and that’s what he’ll want to do). “How was it?”

When he comes back in Keith’s dropped his legs to dangle off the bed. His belly is an island, jutting up off the bed. “Fantastic,” he says, and for once there’s not a hint of sarcasm. “I came twice, which is two times more than I have this past month. I’m good.”

“Awesome,” Lance says, and leans down to wipe at Keith’s ass. Last time they did this, Keith wouldn’t let Lance clean him up; this time he sighs blissfully at the contact and spreads his knees for easier access. “Do you think…this is something we could do again?”

“Are you trying to get into my pants, Lance McClain?” Keith’s grin is cocky and wild.

“Already did,” Lance says, with a look down at Keith’s belly.

“I guess we can do it again. Since, you know. The horse has already left the barn. However that saying goes.”

“Good.” Lance finishes wiping up and crawls into bed. When he tugs Keith into spooning, Keith follows without complaining. “Cause, you know. We were kind of on a sex embargo there.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Keith clutches at Lance’s hand on his chest, and _where_ did this snuggly Keith come from? Lance’s boyfriend has been replaced by a kitten. “I just…figured you didn’t want to. With all this.” He makes a vague gesture at his entire lower body. “And honestly, I thought it was temporary. Like you weren’t here to stay. So why open up that can of worms for nothing?”

Lance kisses the skin behind his ear.

“I’m sorry for thinking you were so shallow,” Keith says. “About both things. I know…feels like all I do is sabotage us. Not telling you about her, not moving in with you at first, not sleeping with you, making you keep me a secret – “

“You were trying to protect yourself,” Lance says, and means it. “I get it. This whole Hollywood stuff is whack, and you didn’t really know me. I get it, I really do. I’m not mad. Well – “ He backtracks, because this bed feels too honest to lie about anything. “I’m still a little mad you didn’t tell me. It doesn’t really make sense to me, so I’m kinda pissed about it, yeah. But I’ll get over it,” he says, very seriously, because he wants Keith to understand this. “I won’t be mad forever. And after that, then we’ll be in the clear. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Keith’s breathing has evened out, and Lance can feel him slipping into sleep. He shifts around, getting comfortable, pulling a pillow close and rearranging his arm so it’s not completely asleep in the morning.

“A long time,” Keith says, so soft Lance almost thinks he’s dreaming it. “That’s how long I’ll have you. A really long time.”

His voice is sleepy and tender. Lance feels so grateful he could cry. Instead he kisses Keith on the back of the neck, gives his belly a little rub, and lets both of them drift away.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith’s cell phone never used to ring during the work day. When it did, it was only one of two things: Shiro calling to confirm if he was coming to dinner, or his doctor calling to confirm an appointment.

Now, it’s any number of people: Lance, Pidge, Shiro, Adam, Hunk, Romelle, security, random gossip mags who manage to get his number and want to ask him super invasive questions about his life with Lance. He hangs up right away now, because one time he told them to fuck off and the next day it had been translated into a headline saying, ‘Keith and Lance on the rocks – Lance can’t deal with Keith’s mood swings anymore!’ So now he hangs up and gives the number to both Griffin and Pidge: Griffin to block them from calling and Pidge to spam their office with non-stop automated emails of llamas fucking. It brings her, in her own words, ‘orgasmic joy.’

Sendak gives him a look when Keith’s phone rings again during work. Keith glares right back and begins the laborious process of getting off his stool and digging his phone out of his pocket. Ever since Keith’s restraining order against Prorok’s daughter, tensions have been high at Galra Motors. Sendak complained that they were sending away customers (because of course teenage girls are loyal customers of motorcycle garages). Keith replied that because his safety was compromised there was nothing Sendak could do unless he wanted to go to court. Everyone has been salty ever since, which has got Keith thinking about how much he needs to stay here. For the first time in his whole life, he doesn’t need the money; his salary is a drop in the bucket compared to Lance’s, and even with all the drama his next movie is projected to open well. This’ll put another several million in their account, which is something Keith can barely comprehend. He likes working, he likes being busy, but he can’t deny that he’s not the breadwinner of his little family. So maybe when he goes on paternity leave he’ll just…stay on leave. Or at least find a better garage.

When he finally waddles over to a quiet part of the garage and fishes his phone out, it’s Kinkade calling. This normally does not bode well for Keith. “Hello?”

“Hey, Keith. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine.” He’s not, really; Braxton-Hicks contractions have him miserable and his feet are so swollen he is seriously considering cutting them off. “What’s up?”

“We’ve been surveying your old apartment and we think the location managed to stay secret, since we moved you to Lance’s so early. Of course there’s still a risk, but we talked with the landlord and installed a new security system so we think the greatest threat has passed and we can handle whatever comes.”

Keith blinks, the words bouncing like ping pong balls around his brain without sinking in anywhere. “Uh, sorry, can you…pregnancy brain, I’m sorry.”

“You can move back, Keith,” Kinkade says, prompting a brief stutter in Keith’s heart. “Your old apartment is safe again.”

“Oh,” Keith says. And then nothing.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Kinkade says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Keith says, still totally dazed. He ends the call feeling weirdly transported back in time, like he’s six months pregnant instead of eight and a half, and after work he’s going to go back to the basement apartment, eat some stir-fry and fall asleep alone to the sounds of ‘Garrison Varsity.’ He’s only been living with Lance for a little over a month; how does it already feel like a lifetime ago?

He goes back to work and finishes replacing brake pads. His mind is somewhere else though, and when it’s lunchtime, he eats the enchiladas Lance packed and then…leaves. He gets on his old bus, which is totally empty in the middle of the day, and rides in total silence to his old stop. He gets off and the smog hits him right to the face. There’s graffiti on the walls, crushed cans in the tree well, a couple dusty wildflowers pushing up from the rocky soil. He coughs, which is embarrassing. He’s lived in LA his whole life, smog should never make him cough. Apparently he’s gone soft.

He almost expects his key to be gone, but it’s still on his keychain right next to Lance’s house key. First he has to put in a code on a fancy new security pad on the iron gate. He plugs in the code that Kinkade texted him and it swings open. One more lock, and then he’s inside.

It's _dark_. He’s forgotten how dark it is, how his eyes take a moment to readjust. Everything’s still here, of course; the thrift store furniture painfully culled by him and Shiro, the Christmas lights above the tiny window, the three framed pictures by the kitchen. There’s still a mug in the sink, from that last morning before the story broke and he was whisked away. He wanders into his bedroom, even darker than the living room, and finds his bed unmade, the sheets stale and a little dusty. They’ve taken all of his clothes, but his poster and favorite pillow are still here. He doesn’t linger here for long; it hurts to look at the bed, with its phantom pains of loneliness, memories of tossing and turning in these sheets, the baby inside petrifying him with her presence.

The nursery is the same; mismatched baby furniture, a crib with no sheets on the mattress, cans of paint that never got applied and decals that were never put up. He runs his hands over the Walmart onesies and smiles ruefully. They never had a formal baby shower, but nonetheless got a ton of unprompted gifts. One of the gifts was a set of baby onesies from Burberry, gorgeous and chic and valued at hundreds of dollars, courtesy of Kim Kardashian. Next to those, his little $15 Walmart onesies feel…quaint. And a little sad.

Keith wanders back out and sits heavily on the couch, letting out a huff at the feeling of falling backwards. He puts a hand on his belly and looks around. The tiny window lets in gorgeous butter-yellow sunlight; it’s April now, fully spring, and the last clear memories he has in here are in winter. The light is totally different now. Warmer, and friendlier.

He doesn’t want to be alone right now. Fortunately, he’s never alone.

“Hi Soledad,” he whispers. Nice of her to be sleepy now, when he’d love to feel her. Still, he likes the idea of her tucked up inside him, warm and safe and asleep. Where no one can get her. “Hi, little one.”

He could move back in. He could have his own bed. He and Lance could co-parent separately, like they planned to do.

He closes his eyes and takes one last deep breath. Then he heaves himself up and heads out. He catches the bus back to work and finishes out the day. The bus comes again at 4:18.

Instead he drives back to Bel-Air.

There’s soft reggaeton music playing when he walks through the day. He kicks off his shoes and follows the music into the kitchen. It’s coming from Lance’s phone, and the man himself is standing at the stove, barefoot and humming as he chops up asparagus. Keith leans against the doorway to watch him. Lance is totally stripped of artifice, with old worn sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt. He sings to himself, the Spanish words shaped easily on his tongue, the plaintive melody contrasting with the beautiful sunshine out the window. He finishes cutting the asparagus and throws them in a pan with some oil. Keith places a hand on his stomach and doesn’t fight his smile.

Finally Lance notices him. “Hey, babe. When did you get home?”

“Just now.” Keith walks over and kisses him. Lance smiles into it and places a hand on Keith’s belly.

“How’s she doing? Ready to come out yet, love?”

“At this rate she’ll stay in there forever.”

“Don’t worry, babe, I’d stay inside your daddy forever too.”

“ _Gross,_ Lance.”

He laughs and gives Keith another kiss. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve got asparagus and some beef in the oven, but if your stomach’s acting up again we’ve still got leftover pasta.”

“No, beef sounds great.” He sits down at the kitchen island, groaning softly as the weight shifts off his back. “How was the interview?”

“Fine, nothing to report. Same old. The interviewer was, like. Weirdly into Bond stuff? Kept asking me about my training and how it compared to the old-school 007 movies. I was finally like, 'My man. I had training in only the extremely specific things required of me in this movie. I cannot barrel roll out of a car. Stop asking.’”

Keith grins. “How is that a normal question in an interview?”

“It’s not, trust me. Normally you chat about the movie, they make a comment trying to get you to talk about your love life, you laugh awkwardly, you move on. It’s the Hollywood dream.”

He grins at Keith, loose and easy, and Keith knows he made the right choice.

“How was your day?” Lance asks.

“Oh. Totally fine. Hey, what are we doing this weekend?”

“Nothing, I don’t think. Why?”

“Can we take the car down to my old place? I wanna pick up the last of my stuff that’s there.”

The words take a minute to sink in; when they do, Lance grins like sunshine.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, and ‘babe’ sounds like a prayer. “I’d be happy to.”

 

* * *

 

 

On April 7th, two important things happen. One: Keith hits 36 weeks and is officially full-term. And two: Archie finally comes home.

“Here we go,” Pidge whispers, trying not to jostle the sleepy baby in his car seat. “It’s your home!”

Keith follows, caught between joy and awkwardness. He and Pidge had plans to hang out today before she got the call that Archie was finally cleared to go home. He said he was happy to reschedule; she replied, “Honestly, would you mind staying? I don’t want to bring him home to an empty apartment.”

Keith carries her bag in and sets it down in her room. When he comes out, Pidge is easing Archie out of his car seat, his little squirmy body in her tiny hands.

“I know you don’t want to cuddle but I do, so we’re gonna cuddle,” Pidge says, in this soft voice he never hears from her. She tucks him in the cradle of her arms, and he instantly grabs tight hold of her t-shirt. Her face melts.

“He’s home,” Keith says, sitting down beside her as gently as he can. “God, I almost can’t believe it.”

“I know,” Pidge replies. She’s teary-eyed, of course. “And he can nurse and he’s breathing great and they say there shouldn’t be any long-term effects. He’s gonna be _fine_.”

“He was in the hospital for a month, he'd better be fine.” Keith looks down at his little face. Archie looks like a Holt, by a stroke of luck from some benevolent god; he’s got tufts of brown hair and clear brown eyes. He looks all around, taking in the new room, his little lips puckering minutely. Every couple of seconds he looks back at Pidge, like he has to make sure she’s still there.

“He’s amazing,” Keith says, and means it. Suddenly he’s so excited to meet Soledad, to hold his own baby in his arms, to see her little face and hold her tiny hands and get to meet this person he’s been creating for all these months.

“Obviously he’s amazing,” Pidge says, and it makes Keith grin. “Like I would make a less-than-amazing human being. I have pride in my work.”

“Of course you do,” he says.

She flashes him a smile and ducks down to press a kiss to Archie’s head. “I’m not saying it was worth it,” she says, and Keith goes still when her words sink in. “Cause it was horrific, and I’m not sure anything could make it worth that. But…” She rubs a slow thumb over his chubby foot. “He comes pretty close. Closer than I thought anything could come. And it hurts less, when I’m holding him. I’ve got no data to back that up but it’s still true. Does that…am I making any sense?”

“Yeah, Pidgey,” he says. “You’re making a whole lot of sense.”

Ten minutes later Colleen and Sam burst through the door, because Pidge could only hold them off for so long. Colleen orders enough food to feed a family of twenty, so Lance comes over when he’s off work, and Matt brings Shiro and Adam, and Hunk somehow shows up? They all cram into Pidge’s little apartment and pass the baby around and laugh over takeaway Chinese. And right when Keith’s getting sleepy, he scoots closer to Lance and lays his head on his chest. Lance pulls his arm around him and plants a kiss on his forehead, and Archie makes a soft little noise from Sam’s lap, and the LA springtime glows outside the window.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do I have to go?” Keith says.

“Well, no, you don’t _have_ to go. But it’s fun! Good dinner, handshaking. Show the studio execs that you’re not some awful guy, that you’re my boyfriend and I love you and you’re sticking around.”

Keith can understand the logic behind it. Going to this party – a pre-opening night celebration, with dinner and drinks and dancing – will go a long way in repairing relationships with Lance’s movie exec people. And realistically, it’s not that much work.

But Keith doesn’t _wanna_ go.

“I want to stay home and eat pretzels,” he says.

“And you can do that,” Lance says, unfailingly patient with extremely pregnant grumpy Keith. “But if you’re feeling up to it, it’d really mean a lot to me if you came.”

Goddamn it. Now Keith has to go.

The next day, Lance texts him a name and address.

_??_ Keith texts back.

_For the tux,_ Lance says.

_I have to wear a tux??_

_You’ll look great!!_

_No sex for a week,_ Keith texts back, and after work he gets a ride from one of Lance’s drivers all the way down to fucking Rodeo Drive. Back where this all began.

The well-dressed sales attendant is waiting for him when he walks in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kogane,” she says smoothly. Her smile is very white under the soft lights. “Welcome. Please follow me.”

She leads him past elegant mannequins and rows of well-pressed suits to a separate little section, with low couches and mirrors and a white door to a changing room. There are two people waiting for him on the couches: Hunk, which isn’t surprising, and one person who is.

“Pidge?” He says. “What are you doing here?”

She grins. “And miss this delicious awkwardness? No way, buddy.” She’s wearing actual clothes instead of sweats: a gray and white baseball tee, black skinny jeans and chunky orange sneakers. She looks completely out of place in this store and especially next to Hunk’s nice sport coat, but he’s so happy to see her he doesn’t even care.

“How did you even know about this?” He gives both of them a hug.

“Hunk told me,” she says brightly. “We’ve been texting for weeks.”

Keith gapes at Hunk, who just shrugs and smiles. “She helped me with a coding problem and I fixed her funky USB port. She does software, I do hardware, it’s a techie match made in heaven.”

“Who’s watching Archie?”

“I left him in a dumpster with some raccoons,” she says flatly. “My _mother_ , you dumbass. Honestly she begged me for the chance and I could use some time out of the house. Can you quit stalling and let us see you in some tuxes?”

Pidge’s presence makes Keith feels so much better, not just for his sake but for hers. She has been a recluse, which he can’t blame her for; there’s been _a lot_ going on in her life recently. But it gives him so much joy to see her here, with her hair brushed and her eyes sparkling. It’s worth trying on some tuxes to see this.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

His stylist arrives a minute later, a tall beautiful man with elegantly sculpted hair and thin silver rings on his finger. He takes Keith behind the changing room door and graciously says nothing about Keith’s massive stretch-marked belly. Turns out there’s a reason they’re here; this is apparently the foremost store for pregnancy tuxedos in Los Angeles. The stylists tells him how they designed a new tailored shirt, and Keith gets lost in the explanation about ‘darting’ and ‘side elastication’ but he knows when he puts on the shirt that this is a good shirt. It fits fully across his belly without straining the buttons, but it also fits well across his chest and shoulders and doesn’t drown him. The pants are black wool with a comfy elastic band at the waist and elastic throughout, and the jacket is fitted across the shoulders but hangs open. The stylists add a cummerbund to class it up and break up the line of his belly, and when Keith walks out in the full ensemble, Pidge and Hunk cheer loud enough to make the other shoppers stare. After that it’s picking out the right tie and pocket square and color of the suit, with loud interjections from Pidge and Hunk about best colors. They settle on a black suit with red for the accents, which is Keith’s favorite color, and at the end of it he almost feels ready for this dinner.

That all evaporates when he sets foot inside the venue.

It’s held inside a historic hotel, all burgundy carpet and velvet drapes and a chandelier thick with crystals. All eyes are on Lance and Keith as soon as they walk in, which Keith should be used to by now but isn’t. Lance is, though, and he grips even tighter to Keith’s hand.

“Remember, it’s just that they don’t know you,” he whispers as they descend dramatically into the hall. “We’re gonna change their minds tonight.”

Privately, Keith thinks most of these people will never change their mind about him. They’ll always think of him as the low-born slut who ruined the stock value of their precious Lance McClain, and showing up here when he’s this pregnant probably isn’t helping. But there is a thrill in walking in on Lance’s arm, Lance showing that he’s not hiding Keith away just cause they got themselves in trouble. And Lance looks amazing tonight, in a delicious tux with a blue pocket square to contrast with Keith’s. So if nothing else, at least they look good.

Keith can see Iverson with his eye patch by the bar just to their right, and he’s mentally preparing for his first interaction to be an awful one. But someone else is walking towards them, wearing a pale blue dress with streaming white hair. Someone who makes Keith’s heart stop in his chest.

“Allura,” Lance breathes, and immediately hugs her. “It is _so_ good to see you!”

“Oh, Lance, I’ve missed you,” she says. She has an odd British accent; Keith noticed it in all the movies but it’s much more striking in person. “Don’t you look handsome tonight!”

“Thanks, babe,” he says, and when he says ‘babe’ Keith’s blood fucking boils because that’s _his_ word. And he gets no time to recuperate because Lance says,

“I don’t think you’ve properly met Keith yet! This is my boyfriend, Keith; Keith, this is Allura Altea.”

Like he doesn’t fucking know who she is.

“Keith,” she says in a warm voice, her mouth quirked up in a smile. To Keith’s relief she doesn’t try to hug him. “I’m so delighted to meet you at last. I’ve been hearing nothing but good things about you for months now. And can I say, you look so handsome tonight!”

Lance beams next to him, one arm slung around Keith’s hip. Keith has no idea what to say. “Uh, thanks,” he stammers. “You, uh. You look nice too?”

“Thank you so much,” she says, a sincere thank you to his stammering compliment. “How kind! Have you gotten something to drink yet? Should we get some refreshments?”

“You gotta promise not to abandon us to the suits,” Lance says.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she replies, and Keith is startled by the dagger-hard edge in her eyes. “I won’t let them touch you.”

When Iverson walks over next, he almost does a double-take when he sees Allura glaring him down. “Hello, Lance, Allura. Keith.” Maybe Keith’s paranoid but he’s sure there was a pause before his name.

“Hello, Mr. Iverson,” Keith says. Handshakes are shared all around, and Iverson looks back at Keith.

“Glad you all could make it. I’m sure you didn’t want to come.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to come?” Allura says immediately. “Does Keith not want to support his partner?”

Iverson blinks. “I just meant, he’s pregnant, and – “

“Astute observation,” she replies. “He is pregnant, and it’s up to him to decide what he feels up to. Until you go through it I think you have no right to judge, wouldn’t you say?”

Iverson squirms like a dog caught in a bear trap. Finally all he says is, “Looks like my friend is over there,” and beats a hasty retreat. Allura watches him go and then turns to Lance and Keith with a smile.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

The rest of the night goes just like that. Allura is their faithful guard dog; if she senses the conversation is friendly she lets it be, but if she catches any hostility she’s on it in a heartbeat. Her heels could be used as daggers as she walks with them around the room, and it makes Keith relax for the first time all night. He can tell this is good for Lance – he’s back on the scene for the first time in a while, and Keith can tell from the conversations that this is going a long way towards reassuring them that Lance is still a viable money-making movie star – and with Allura keeping them safe, this nightmare night is actually kinda fun.

Allura does actually leave them at one point but it’s only to talk with Romelle, who she’s spotted across the hall. Apparently they went to high school together or something. Keith and Lance take a well-deserved break, sitting down at one of the little tables. Keith’s feet are killing him in his dress shoes, and as soon as he sits down he instantly feels so tired he could pass out.

“Dude,” he says, and Lance turns to look at him. “How do you not have a crush on Allura? I think _I_ have a crush on her.”

Lance laughs and reaches a hand over to grab Keith’s. “I know, babe. She’s pretty amazing.”

“I was so jealous,” he says. The hall is so loud and they’re totally isolated, away from everything else, so it feels private. “For so long. And she’s…so awesome. She’s the whole reason they let us come out, right?”

“Basically. Hunk called her when the studio people were about to castrate me and forced them to treat us like humans. She threatened to walk away from a multi-million-dollar movie just to get us respect.”

Keith watches her, watches her sparkling eyes and boisterous laugh, and feels like the biggest asshole in LA (which is a major accomplishment.) He’s got to talk to her before the night ends.

He gets his chance at dinner; she’s seated next to Lance, with Keith on his other side. Keith mulls over his words and builds up his courage all through the salad course and when Lance gets up to go to the bathroom, he takes his seat.

“Hello Keith,” she says with a smile, one hand on the stem of her wine glass.

“Hi,” he says, his heart thudding in his throat. “So I want to apologize.”

“What for?” She says, brows furrowing.

“For kinda hating you,” he admits, and watches her eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not sure what Lance has told you, but I didn’t tell him I was pregnant until seven months in. And part of the reason was because I read these People magazine articles that said you two were dating.”

“We weren’t,” she says seriously. “Keith, I promise, we have been nothing but platonic.”

“I know. Lance told me. He also told me how you went to the mat for us with the studio, and I know you’ve been doing a lot of promo so Lance can stay with me, and I just want to say that I’m so sorry. I hated you before I knew you, and that was wrong.”

“Oh, Keith,” she says, with a rueful smile. “It’s alright. You’re far from the first to hate me without knowing me.”

“Who could ever hate you?” He replies honestly. Allura laughs and looks down at the pristine white tablecloth.

“I’m a young, successful, black actress,” she says. “A lot of people don’t think I deserve any of the things I’ve worked so hard for. So I’m no stranger to anonymous hate, I assure you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Keith says, and gives her hand a squeeze.

“Thank you,” she replies. “But you know who never thought those things? Lance. Ever since I met him he has been nothing but a loyal friend. I guest-starred on ‘Garrison Varsity’ when I was fifteen or so and instantly I knew I’d found a friend. I’d hide in his trailer when the internet trolls got to me, and when directors wanted to give me terrible storylines or horrific character development Lance would fight for me. He’s always checked in before and after we do kissing scenes and he’s always been there when I need a listening ear. And I knew he would never bring you around if you weren’t the same kind of person, so as far as I’m concerned you are a wonderful human being who got very reasonably jealous at a very emotional time in your life. So I promise,” she squeezes back, “I hold no hard feelings. And I’m happy to help however I can. Because you two are going to be amazing parents and it’s an honor to support you.”

Oh man, Keith’s gonna cry. He’s totally gonna cry. He’s ready for this pregnancy to be over, just so he stops being a weepy mess all the time.

“Thanks,” he says wetly, and her eyes widen in alarm.

“Oh Keith! I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

“Everything makes me cry,” he replies, wiping at his eyes. “Mustard makes me cry.”

“Why does mustard make you cry?” Lance says, coming back from the bathroom. He picks up his napkin and looks over at them with a smile.

“Cause mustard reminds me of your hideous face,” Keith says.

Allura bursts out laughing.

“Ouch,” Lance says. “This is what I get for loving you and making you rich. For being a loving and supportive partner and father to our child.”

“Yes, Lance,” Allura says, mirth in her eyes. “That is exactly what you get.”

Keith laughs. There’s a crystal chandelier and a waiter bringing a steaming plate of filet mignon. After this they’ll go home, and his boyfriend will rub his swollen feet before they fall asleep with their baby between them, just waiting to be born.

He could’ve worn a condom, but he didn’t.

And somehow he’s so, so happy about that.

 

* * *

 

 

“And we’re live here on 97.5 KDP with none other than Lance McClain!” Bob, the DJ, presses a button, filling Lance’s headphones with the sound of a prerecorded applause track. The other radio people in the recording booth clap along. “Lance my man, you are the most popular dude in Hollywood right now! We had to beg to get you here!”

“Well, you know, charity work is very important to me, so I’m happy to make time for you losers,” Lance says into the mic. The DJs boo, and he grins. “Always happy to hang out with Bob, the President of my fan club.”

“Card-holding member for six years,” Bob replies. He’s always been one of Lance’s favorite DJ’s, but he is an absolute asshole. Lance always gets tricked into some absolute bullshit when he’s on this show. “We played the ‘Garrison Varsity’ drinking game at my wedding.”

“Oh, which one?”

“The one where you drink every time Dakotah cries or Marco says, ‘Come on, man!’”

“Oh, that’s a good one!” Lance says. “Yeah, we played that one at last year’s cast reunion.”

“Child stars, everybody,” Bob says as the studio laughs. “Tragic, all of them. Drinking at a young age, getting one-night stands pregnant – “

“Hey,” Lance protests, defensive even though that is literally exactly what happened.

“I kid, you know I kid. How’s the baby mama?”

“Good! A little grumpy.”

“Well, I’d imagine! Isn’t he like eight years pregnant?”

“Thirty-nine weeks,” Lance says with a smile. “So pretty far along. Almost there.”

“And the gender of this beautiful baby is…?”

“None of your business,” Lance says, and Bob groans dramatically.

“Seriously? Not even for your old friend Bob?”

“Not for anyone.”

“Beyoncé?”

“Maybe for Beyoncé,” Lance admits, and Bob cackles in the mic.

“Everyone has a price, right? Well, let’s talk movie! _Edge of a Knife_ , what’s it about?”

“Me sharpening knives for 90 minutes,” Lance says, and gets another laugh. Keith’s really rubbing off on him; Lance would never have been able to pull off deadpan humor before. “No, it’s a really cool movie. All about spies and government secrets. About when to follow orders or follow what you know is right.”

“That’s heavy! Was this a tough role to take on?”

“Kinda. It was challenging for sure, to put myself in that headspace. I obviously don’t have a lot of experience in that field.”

“You mean to say you don’t moonlight as a spy?” Bob gasps dramatically.

“Yeah, definitely not,” Lance replies with a chuckle. “I am way too lazy for that. Funny you should say that, because – “

His phone, lying face up on the table, starts vibrating. The screen says ‘Keith.’

Lance’s heart stops.

“Sorry,” he barely says, before lunging for the phone and accepting the call. “Hello?”

“Lance?”

“Yeah, babe, I’m here. What’s up?”

“Are you still in your interview?” Keith’s voice sounds tight and strained.

“Yeah, I am, but it’s okay. What’s up, are you okay?”

Keith hadn’t felt good earlier in the day when Lance left him, complaining about feeling achy and hot. Lance convinced him to call out sick, because Keith looked like he’d rather die than go work on bikes. He’s just now realizing that he’s still live on the radio, the red ‘On Air’ button flicked on, but he thinks he knows what Keith’s going to say and he doesn’t care about anything else.

“I’m just…I’m not feeling good. I think these are real contractions, not just Braxton-Hicks, and my belly feels really tight and…I think it's time," Keith admits.

A shot of adrenaline instantly floods Lance's body, shooting his heart rate through the roof. "Oh shit," he says on live radio. "Oh my God. Oh God. Okay, I'll be right there."

"I'm fine," Keith says. "I don't think it's happening any time soon."

"Still," Lance says, "I'll be with there. Oh my God." The DJs are looking at him with unbridled glee.

"Okay." Keith still sounds shaky and small, and Lance physically aches to be with him. "See you soon."

Lance says goodbye and hangs up, and the radio station bursts out in applause, including a prerecorded applause track. "Are you about to become a daddy?" Bob says gleefully.

Lance gives a laugh that sounds slightly hysterical to his own ears, so he can't imagine how it sounds to everyone else. "Uh yeah, it looks like it. I'm gonna have to take a rain check if that's okay."

"Sure you can't stay?" Bob teases.

He's too hyped up to handle jokes right now. "Yeah, no, I'm heading down right now. I can't believe she's almost here, Jesus, were finally going to meet Soledad, she's finally here – “

"Oh my God, is that her name?" Bob’s eyes are wide as saucers. "Soledad? It's a girl?"

Welp, Keith's gonna kill him. He just said their super-secret baby name on live radio. This is his last day on Earth. Adios, cruel world. "Uh, no comment, okay gotta go thanks for having me bye!"

Lance runs out of the studio, past a line of cheering staff, his mind caught between _Fuck me I just told everyone the baby’s name_ and _Keith’s having the baby I’m gonna be a dad oh my God oh my Jesus._ Kinkade is waiting for him at the elevator and his normally stoic face is extra tight.

“I know,” Lance says. “I know. Did you call Hunk?” Hunk is the first person he calls when he’s having a baby, that’s saying something.

“Yes, we’ll talk to him in the car.” They file into the elevator and the silence feels amazing. Kinkade turns to him, and this time he’s smiling.

“Congratulations, Lance.”

Once again, Lance’s heart stops. This is seriously happening. “Thanks, man, thanks. Oh my God.”

Kinkade nods sagely.

In the car Kinkade boots up the Bluetooth before anything else. “ _Lance_ ,” Hunk says, just as they’re pulling out of the garage.

“I know, okay? You’ll cover it?”

“There’s nothing to cover, you just told everyone you’re having a baby on live radio! You’re trending on Twitter!”

“What’s the hashtag?” He asks without thinking.

“ _Lance!_ ”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, leg jiggling against the floor. Kinkade is hauling ass, going at speeds Lance is sure are illegal, LA whipping by in a blur. “Just…tell me it’s gonna be okay.”

Hunk’s tone softens immediately. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be amazing. You’re gonna be a dad.”

“Fuck,” Lance whispers. He needs to see Keith, now.

When Kinkade finally pulls up Lance doesn’t even wait for him to stop; he throws himself out of the moving car, almost tripping in his haste, throwing, “Thank you, bug me about a raise once I have my baby!” over his shoulder as he opens the door.

“Keith!” The sunlight foyer is silent. The whole house is very quiet.

“Over here,” Lance hears.

He half-jogs into the sunken living room, where Keith is sitting on the leather couch. His head is tipped back and his arms rest at his sides. He could almost be sleeping if Lance didn’t see his tight tendons standing out on his neck.

“Babe?” He says, inching forward.

Keith looks up and Lance is thrown by his eyes – how wide they are, how petrified. How the sunlight turns them violet.

“Lance,” he says softly. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Lance says back, which feels wildly inadequate. “What – is it happening?”

“I think so.” Keith shifts, his face scrunching up. “My back was killing me all morning, so I called out, and you know I lost my mucus plug on Monday – “

Lance’s face scrunches up. He had not known what a mucus plug was, and he wishes he could go back to that happy ignorance.

“And when I was taking a bath I could feel her moving. When I stood up she’d dropped, like right into my pelvis. And now…I think I’m having contractions.”

“What?”

“Far apart,” Keith says. “Really far apart. Twenty minutes, right now between them.”

“Well we need to go then, come on, I’ll grab the bag – “

“Lance,” he says, and he’s actually smiling. “Stop. If we go now they’ll just send us home. Once it picks up we can go.”

“Oh.” Lance does remember Dr. Rosenthal saying that at their last appointment. “So we just hang.”

“Yeah. We call our families, let them know it’s coming but not to go to the hospital yet. And we just…hang out.”

“Okay.” God, Lance has so much adrenaline, he feels like he could run a mile. He forces himself to calm down, match Keith’s exhaustion. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

Keith shrugs. “A hug,” he says, and his voice trembles.

Lance is down beside him as fast as he can, all but throwing himself onto the couch as he takes Keith into his arms. Keith buries himself in Lance’s neck, and Lance runs his hands through his hair. He’s shaking, just a little, a thrumming in his body.

“It’s finally happening,” he whispers. “There’s so much that could get fucked up.”

“It won’t,” Lance replies immediately. “I promise.”

“You can’t promise that, America has the highest maternal mortality rate in the developed world – “

“What? Where is this coming from? Maternal mortality, did you talk to Pidge?”

“Yes, but it’s still true.”

Lance pulls back and sees that Keith means it. His eyes are wide and terrified and his skin is pale. It hits Lance, again, how young they are. Keith is twenty-one, and he’s coming up rapidly on one of the most physically demanding things he’ll ever have to do. His body is starting a process that’s ancient and immense and will hopefully end with the birth of a new human, and Lance is as in awe of it as he is petrified of it. Everything he loves is suddenly in danger.

“Okay,” he tells Keith. “I can’t promise you everything is going to be okay. Here’s what I can promise. You have a doctor who’s been with you the whole time and has no concerns about your ability to deliver safely. You’re going to a hospital with all of modern medicine at your disposal. You’re gonna get an epidural, so you’ll be on that god shit and won’t even feel a thing. And if you feel like anything is wrong, then you’ll let me know and I’ll raise holy hell so they can say I’m the hysterical one and not you.”

Keith’s quiet, looking right at Lance’s eyes. Slowly, he leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too,” Lance says. He’s never meant it like now.

Keith manages a smile. He grabs Lance’s hand and pulls it down to his belly.

“Oh wow,” Lance says, cupping it. “It’s a lot lower. And harder?”

Keith nods. “Yeah, I can breathe again now that she’s not on my lungs.”

“But it’s like a bowling ball!”

“Exactly,” Keith says dryly. “Imagine a bowling ball on your fucking pelvis.”

“Sorry I didn’t wear a condom,” Lance says with a wince.

Keith cocks his head and gives a smile Lance can’t interpret. “I’m not,” he replies.

Lance smiles too.

They call their families next, telling them to not go to the hospital yet but be ready. Dr. Rosenthal texts Keith to let her know when his contractions are about fifteen to twelve minutes apart or when his water breaks. Lance’s phone is buzzing with press questions and his stomach drops every time he remembers about the radio this morning. When Keith grabs a blanket and turns on Netflix, Lance has to ask.

"Were you, uh, were you listening to the radio show?"

Keith shakes his head, face scrunching up in what Lance thinks is a contraction. "No. I was feeling nauseous so I turned it off and went to the bathroom." His voice is tight, throat constricted.

Lance feels a great drop, relief washing through him. "That's totally fine babe."

"I'm sure you were great," Keith says with a tiny smile, and Lance falls in love all over again.

“Obviously I was,” he says, relief making him haughty, and Keith rolls his eyes.

He actually goes pretty silent while they’re watching. Lance tries to follow his lead. He was expecting a movie birth, with screaming and hand-holding and yelling about how he’s never sleeping with Lance again. But Keith just sits in silence, keeping his eyes closed sometimes. Occasionally his brows furrow and he goes a little rigid, and he tells Lance it’s a contraction so Lance can restart the timer on his phone.

“What’s it feel like?” Lance asks, when his curiosity gets the better of him.

Keith breathes in deep. He shifts his hips, letting out a little noise in his throat. “Like a belt tightening,” he finally says. “Across my belly. It starts in the back and then comes over. Before it was just uncomfortable, but now it’s hurting.”

“That means it’s picking up,” Lance says. “Let me call Hunk, figure out our plan.”

Hunk’s been at it for hours by the time they get him on speaker. “Alright, so I already called Cedars-Sinai,” he says. “They’ve got the back entrance roped off, we should be able to have James drive you if there’s no complications – “

“Cedars-Sinai?” Keith says. “Why not Mercy General in Culver? That’s where Dr. Rosenthal is."

“Cedars-Sinai is normally where celeb babies get delivered,” Lance says. “It’s one of the best hospitals in the world.”

“I’m not going where Dr. Rosenthal isn’t,” Keith says, and Lance can tell this is a case he’s going to lose. “I don’t care if she’s a celeb baby or whatever, I’m not having some doctor I don’t know delivering her.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Hunk cuts in before Lance can argue. “Cause Cedars-Sinai is pretty mobbed. Going somewhere else will keep us anonymous, they’ll never think we’d go anywhere else.”

“It’s mobbed?” Keith says. “Already? Fuck, how do they know?”

There’s a far too long and suspicious silence before Hunk speaks. “Oh, you know,” he says, trying to be airy but failing miserably. “Word gets out. Lance left the interview early, they probably just put the pieces together.”

“That sucks,” Keith says, absently holding his belly. “But yeah, I still want Mercy General.”

“I’ll make it happen, buddy,” Hunk promises. “Also, James is on his way to drive you whenever you’re ready to go.”

“You’re the best in the entire world,” Lance says emphatically.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, save it for the baby,” Hunk says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” Lance says, and hangs up.

“Thanks,” Keith says. “For not making me go somewhere else. Dr. Rosenthal has been with me the whole time, before you came back. I don’t want anyone else.”

“Babe, you’re pushing the bowling ball out of your body,” Lance replies. “You get to do whatever you want.”

 

* * *

 

 

So labor is a little quiet. Labor, right now, looks a lot like a tired Keith, who is clearly ready to go to sleep but can’t, because every twenty minutes he seizes up with his teeth clenched. The process is very slow going – Lance’s watch slowly goes down to nineteen minutes apart, then eighteen, but it takes hours. They’ve long since finished watching ‘Garrison Varsity,’ so Lance puts on some mindless cooking show with Keith snuggles into him. Keith intermittently texts Shiro and Pidge and Lance intermittently texts Hunk, Allura and his mom, and when Keith seizes up with a contraction Lance holds him and runs hands through his hair.

Labor is quiet until it’s not; Keith sits up, wide-eyed, says, “Fuck, oh fuck,” and Lance jumps up just as Keith pulls back the blanket and shows the dark wet stain spreading over the couch.

“Shit, I ruined the couch,” Keith says, while Lance is already shouting for James.

It’s just his water breaking and not blood, but James still speeds as they drive downtown. Hunk has prepped the entire thing, and Keith’s tiny little hospital is fully prepared for Lance McClain’s Range Rover to come barreling in. They bring out a wheelchair for Keith and he makes a face before acquiescing, and Lance prays to the gods for patience. If Keith keeps up his heroic I-don’t-need-help attitude through the birth of their fucking baby, this is going to be a very long day.

And then Keith is in the hospital bed with a voluminous gown over his belly and a pulse-ox on his finger, and Lance calls the families to let them know they’re in the hospital and it all feels so much more real. It’s 12:15 pm when Dr. Rosenthal walks in and the first thing Keith says is,

“Epidural.”

“Hello, Keith, how are you?” She says amusedly. “How are you feeling? I’m great, thank you for asking.”

“Hi,” Keith says blankly. “What’s up. I’d like an epidural please.”

“Yes, I know our birth plan. Hi, Lance,” she says calmly while flicking through Keith’s chart. See, this is why Lance loves her; she was starstruck for a whole ten minutes and has not given a single shit about him since. “Keith, you’re way too early, I doubt you’re more than a centimeter or two dilated at this point.”

“But my water broke!”

“That has pretty little to do with contractions, actually. Feet up, babe.” Keith puts his feet in the stirrups and Dr. Rosenthal leans in. (Lance looks over her shoulder cause he’s curious, sue him.) “Yeah, you’re only two centimeters. I’d like to see five before I can schedule an anesthesiologist. Too early and it’ll wear off later.”

“But it hurts,” Keith says.

“That’s what happens when you give birth,” she says mildly, snapping off her gloves and shaking out her hair. “And it’s your first, so if it takes a while that’s totally normal. Everything looks good, baby’s head down and heartbeat is fine, so just sit back and let the process happen. Get up, walk around. Movement can do wonders.”

“Okay,” Keith says defeatedly. “Thanks.”

Dr. Rosenthal smiles and heads out. Lance sits down by the side of the bed and it’s a sign of the times that Keith instantly takes his hand.

“I’m sorry, love,” Lance says. He’s not quite sure what he’s apologizing for. Sorry you can’t get an epidural? Sorry that I’m famous? Sorry I didn’t wear a condom and now you have to push our lovechild through an excruciatingly small opening?

Keith blinks and God, he looks tired already. They’re just getting started. “I want an epidural,” he says. “Pidge was so miserable when she was in labor.”

Ah, this makes sense now. Keith remembers what Pidge went through; he saw it first hand, after all. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “A little bit longer, and then you get to be beautifully numb.”

A contraction strikes, like it’s been summoned; Keith’s teeth grit and a whine escapes from between his teeth. Lance grabs his hand tight and stays steady as the doppler beeps.

“Shit,” he sighs when it passes, and Lance’s heart aches in sympathy. This is gonna be a long day.

Labor gets quiet again. Lance holds Keith’s hand and waits desperately for something to do. This all feels wildly unfair; Lance doesn’t like feeling like an unequal partner in this. It’s quite unfair, really, that they both had half an hour of fun unprotected sex and it’s only Keith who has to give his body over, who has to shift his worldview to accommodate all the new life changes, who has to labor horrifically to bring their daughter to life. Lance wishes there was a way to make it more fair, to carry the baby half the time and switch off, or maybe Keith could gestate and Lance could deliver. He says as much to Keith and gets raised eyebrows in return.

“I just want to help,” Lance defends.

“You are,” Keith says simply. Lance feels a little patronized. There’s no way that could be true.

Keith’s phone buzzes on the bedside table. When he picks it up, he snorts in amusement and shows the screen to Lance.

Pidge: _Dude tell your fuggin security to let me in, you aren’t Beyoncé_

“Shit!” Lance jumps off the chair and finds the hilarious sight of massive Griffin facing off against tiny Pidge, who’s glaring at him with the baby carrier in her hands.

“She’s good,” he says quickly. “She’s fine. There are some people who are fine, I’ll send you names. Come on in, Pidge.”

“Thank you, Lance,” she says, hefting up the baby carrier. As she passes Griffin, Lance can clearly hear her say, “Told you so.”

“Sorry,” he says, bending down to hug her.

“You think you’re real cool, don’t you?” She says, hugging him back. In close to his ear, she whispers, “Congrats, Dad.”

He still doesn’t know what he’s being congratulated for, really. “Nothing’s happened yet.”

“It will,” she says calmly.

Lance hangs back to give Griffin the approved list. People stare even for this brief time that he’s in the hallway, and if he thought having security was overkill before he definitely doesn’t think so now. When he comes back Pidge and Keith are in a deep silent hug, Archie wiggling and whuffing in his carrier. Lance smiles at them, the way they can talk silently with just their touches and smiles. They’ve got more history than Keith and him in so many ways; sometimes it’s hard to not feel jealous of their easy friendship.

“How you feeling?” Pidge asks when she pulls away.

“Like I want an epidural,” he says instantly.

“I know. It gets literally _so much worse_.”

“Why do you sound _happy_ about this?”

“Your pain brings me joy, of course.”

After that, the floodgates are opened; Shiro and Adam come next, fresh from work despite Keith’s protests that they didn’t need to hurry; the Holts, all of them, Colleen bending down to press a kiss to Keith’s hair and making him tear up; the McClain's, as many of them as could arrive, with Lance's mother already crying just a little and promising to pray for them; Hunk and Shay, his beautiful girlfriend, though Hunk mostly manages the chaos from his phone and leaves all the cooing to Shay; and even Allura, which makes the nurses starstruck.

In the middle of it sits Keith, smiling, one hand occasionally straying to his belly. He keeps blinking and laughing, sometimes shy, like he can’t believe he actually has this many people who care about him. Lance is not sure how long it’ll take to convince him that he’s worth this, he’s worth all of this.

_Well, I’m in for the long haul_ , he thinks. A curl of fear and excitement all twisted together rises up, warm in his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Keith says.

“Manslaughter is not going to look good in the papers,” Dr. Rosenthal replies calmly. She takes a look between Keith’s legs while he squirms through a contraction. “Sorry, Keith, you’re still only at three.”

“ _How?_ ” Keith bursts out. “I’ve been here for hours!”

“Because it’s your first one. Because she’s big and you have small hips. Because Mercury is in retrograde. It’s all on a spectrum.” She places a comforting hand on Keith’s knee. “These things take time. She’s not in distress and you are making progress, so I’m not worried. If it takes too long we’ll start you on Pitocin or even do a C-section, but I’m sure we won’t need that.”

“Can I have the epidural yet?”

“No. Not for a bit. Get up, move around, do some laps. It’ll speed it up and make you feel better.” She flashes Lance a sympathetic smile behind her glasses and then ducks out.

Lance waits for the inevitable explosion, for Keith to swear and rage and everything he did with Dr. Rosenthal. Instead he closes his eyes and leans back on the pillow, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The monitor beeps slowly and Lance waits with bated breath. He’s a little sweaty, Lance thinks idly. Did he put on deodorant before he left this morning?

“Babe?” He ventures. Keith says nothing. “Do you…do you want me to get Shiro? Or Pidge?”

Keith shakes his head slowly.

“Want some water?”

Another shake.

“Well, you have to talk to me,” Lance says. “Or, well, you don’t _have_ to, but I’d like it, I guess.”

Keith peels his eyes open like peeling wet paper towels apart. Lance is struck by how red they are, how tired. Were his irises always this huge?

“I hate this,” he whispers.

“Oh, honey,” Lance says immediately. He kisses his knuckles where their hands are clasped. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not weak,” Keith protests, which is not what Lance was thinking at all. “I can handle pain. I got thrown off my bike and broke my arm in two places once. But there’s no resolution right now, no end in sight, and the only way to end it is for her to come out of my body. This is fucked up, who came up with this system?”

“Biology?” Lance replies.

“Fuck biology,” Keith says immediately and yeah, this is the Keith that Lance knows. This is the Keith he can handle, not weird silent Keith. “Fuck biology and fuck whoever said the birth canal doesn’t hurt. It does hurt, it hurts _right now_.”

“Come on.” Lance stands up. “Come on, Doc said you should move, let’s move.”

“I don’t want anyone to see me, my ass is hanging out of this robe!”

“It’s a beautiful ass,” Lance responds immediately, and gets a hint of a smile. “And no one’s gonna see it, everyone’s playing cards and hanging out with baby Archie, and I’ll draw the curtains and Kinkade will beat up anyone who tries to get in.”

Keith frowns, unsure.

“Come on, love,” Lance says softly.

Keith doesn’t say anything, just swings his legs over with a groan. The process of getting him standing takes a long time, with lots of very unattractive grunts and at least one failed attempt where he promptly plopped back down again. Finally he’s up, with his belly huge and firm between his hips even through the billowing hospital gown, black hair tousled and cowlicked with the IV line snaking out of his hand to the pole.

Lance does a double check to make sure the blinks are all closed and then walks back. Keith is looking at him with raised eyebrows, waiting, and Lance has no idea what to do now that he’s got Keith up.

Except his hair is disheveled in a way that looks very familiar.

He gets out his phone, navigates to the music and turns up the volume.

“What,” Keith says, as a very familiar guitar intro fills the room. “You gotta be kidding – “

“Dance with me,” Lance says, holding out his hand.

“You _dork,_ ” Keith says. “Who does this, who plays _Despacito_ when their baby is being born – “

“This is our love song! This played the first night we met!” He comes closer, plants one hand in the dramatic curve of Keith’s lower back, smiles right into Keith’s flushed face, where he’s fighting off a smile in the corners of his mouth.

“ _Despacito_ is not our love song,” he mutters. Like a grumpy little cat. Lance could die for him.

“Come on,” he replies. He starts to move his hips, flat stomach pressed to Keith’s protruding one. “Just like the bar. _Tengo que bailar contigo hoy –_ “

“I still can’t understand you, just because you can sing it – “

“ _Ya, ya me está gustando más de lo normal –_ Keith, don’t make me dance alone!”

“I can’t dance, I can barely walk – “

“Try,” he replies simply.

Keith looks at him, eyes wide with youth and fear and (what Lance is hoping) a little love. He trembles against Lance’s hand, a little shiver underneath his skin. Slowly, very slowly, he moves his hips to the pulsing beat, and Lance grins like his cheeks could burst with it.

“ _Despacito, quiero respirar tu cuello despactio_ ,” he sings, in this hospital room on the brink of the rest of his life. “ _Deja que te digas cosas al oído –_ “

Guiding with his hands, he leads Keith in some very clumsy salsa steps, more of a back-and-forth shuffle than anything. Keith’s face puckers with a contraction and Lance stills, waiting, but Keith just keeps dancing with his teeth grinding. When it passes, he looks up at Lance with bright eyes and red cheeks and manages a shaky grin.

“There you go, you got it,” Lance says nonsensically. He sings through the fast part, giving a dramatic one-two hip shake on the ‘bom bom.’ Then, because the world is full of surprises, Keith actually raises his hands and gives the same hip shake, crinkling the fabric of his gown. Lance gasps in delight, and Keith grins and puts a hand on his belly.

“I don’t know what it’s saying but I got the gist.”

“Hell yeah you do,” Lance say throatily. “Come on, I’ll spin you!”

“Lance,” he yelps, as Lance grabs his hand to spin him, “Wait, the IV – “

“Oh, _shit!_ ”

Keith clumsily ducks out of the way, keeping his IV from wrapping around the pole and each other. Lance grabs him and hauls him close, stroking his hair and whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry - “

“It’s okay,” Keith says with a little laugh, looping his arms around Lance’s neck. “I’m fine, come on. We’re fine.”

He is obviously okay but Lance doesn’t want to let go. Keith’s warm, a bulky line of heat tucked in as close as he can, and this close Lance thinks he can feel her, the way she’s low and raring to go. They sway like kids at prom, Keith’s face pressed close to Lance’s neck, warm puffs of air on his skin. Another contraction hits, and when Keith tenses up Lance keeps rocking them, stroking his hair and whispering the lyrics in Spanish. Keith all but bites into Lance’s shirt, and when it passes he slumps down, knees soft. Lance catches him at the last minute, flexing his muscles to support Keith.

Keith mutters something that’s lost to fabric.

“What’s that, babe?”

“Will you teach her Spanish?”

Lance feels something catch in his chest, and he tightens his grip. “Really? You want me to?”

Keith nods; Lance feels it more than he sees it. “Yeah.” His voice is low, muffled. Tender for once. “Yeah, I think she should. It’ll…it’ll be nice.”

Lance nods, presses an absent kiss to Keith’s temple.

“Absolutely,” he whispers.

Keith smiles against Lance’s shirt, and they sway to the beat.

 

* * *

 

 

Safe to say Lance didn’t expect any of this to happen. He didn’t expect to fall in love with a motorcycle mechanic, he didn’t expect to knock up that mechanic when they were both only 21, he didn’t expect to be sitting and waiting to meet his daughter with a blockbuster movie coming out next week. If he’s honest, he mostly never expected to be on _this_ side of parenthood. He grew up with pregnancy, male and female; his sister and cousins and friends and kids in high school. Pregnancy was normal, and celebrated, and he knows families who are more traditional about pregnancy but his parents never made a distinction between a baby born by a man or a woman. So when Lance saw himself having children, he had always pictured himself on the bed. He looked forward to having a belly, got excited to bitch about swollen ankles and stretchmarks, didn’t mind the thought of laboring to bring forth his child. So it’s been interesting, watching it from his angle, seeing Keith go through it, miserable as he seems sometimes.

So when Lance finally asks again, it’s not just a time filler; it’s a genuine question, borne out of deep curiosity.

“What does it feel like?”

The process has been ramping up, slow as it is. Adam and Shiro were visiting not too long ago and the pain got so bad Keith half-screamed into his teeth. He’s lying glassy-eyed right now, and when he turns to look at Lance it’s like he’s seeing right through him.

“Like a tunnel,” he replies. “Like everything’s crunching in. But there’s nothing you can do. There’s no, like, resolution. Just feels like it’ll hurt forever.”

“Dr. Rosenthal said it’s just cause it’s your first one,” he says uselessly. “That’s why it’s taking so long.”

“Well that doesn’t help me,” Keith says on cue. “I can’t help that this is my first one, there’s nothing I can do about that. I just need her out, she’s killing me, fuck there it goes again, shit fuck oh – “

He squeezes his eyes shut and moans, and Lance would give anything to hurt for him. He strokes Keith’s sweaty bangs out of his face, whispering quiet words in Spanish, cut off when Keith shouts at the crest.

“Oh okay, you’re in it,” says Dr. Rosenthal. Lance didn’t even hear her come in. “Good, Keith, you’re doing great. Shout it out.”

He needs no encouragement on that part, screaming with a raw throat. Dr. Rosenthal maneuvers between his legs so she can look between them.

“You made it to four centimeters,” she says when it passes. “Good job, it’s progressing.”

“Please,” Keith says, and his voice is ragged. “Please, can I have the epidural? This hurts so fucking bad.”

“It’s still a little early,” she says, eyes concerned behind her glasses. “I’d like to see five, ideally…”

“ _Please_ ,” he says, with a sweaty brow and red ears and shaking knees.

“Come on Doc, he’s dying,” Lance says.

She takes a moment, looking between both their faces, and then nods. “Okay. I’ll call the anesthesiologist.”

“Thank you,” Keith says in a rush of air. “Thank you, thank you, fuck.”

“No problem,” she says with a smile, patting his bare knee. “Let me put in a call. You did great, I’m so proud of you.”

“You’re gonna get drugs,” Lance says, with a little cheer. “You’re gonna get the good stuff!”

“Fuck me up, Scotty,” Keith says drowsily, and Lance laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

 

To no one’s surprise, Keith is a lot more amenable to visitors once he’s on drugs.

“Hi,” he says, when the entire Holt family comes in through the door. “Hi, hi, what’s up? Wazzup?”

“Ah, I see we have had an epidural,” Colleen says with a wry twist of her mouth. “Feeling better, dear?”

“I can’t really feel my feet,” Keith tells her, with a crazy smile. “It’s awesome.”

Pidge chuckles, Archie snuggled up tight on her chest, one hand on his tiny diaper-clad bottom. Keith zeroes in on him, his eyes more focused than they’ve been in a while. He reaches out to settle his fingers against Archie’s back, and Archie gives a little whuffle in response.

“Baby,” he says, in a soft voice.

“Yeah,” Pidge replies. “That’s a baby. That’s what you’re doing here. You’re gonna have one.”

“He feels like a warm little butter,” Keith says, completely awestruck, which makes the whole room burst out laughing.

“Oh my God this is amazing,” Matt wheezes. Pidge, Lance notices, has been recording this, her phone held in her other hand. The little shit.

“Ooh, contraction,” Keith says calmly, which is a nice chance from the earlier screaming. “Lance, how far apart?”

“Six minutes,” he says, restarting the timer on his phone. “That’s really close!”

“It’s almost time,” Keith says, with a childlike wonder in his eyes. “It’s almost here. We’re gonna have a baby.”

Lance feels his own eyes water. Keith looks so excited, like it’s shining out of him. He’s so excited to have Lance’s baby and fuck, that does something to him. “Yeah, love,” he says. “It’s almost here.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sun sets outside the window, casting orange and purple all over the room. Lance feels like this hospital room is his whole life; like he’s never lived anywhere that wasn’t Room 301B. He can’t remember his house or his trailer or anything that’s not this room and Keith’s damp hand in his. He’s going to be in this room forever.

“I think I gotta push,” Keith says tightly.

Or maybe not forever.

“Wait, really?” Lance says, like Keith hasn’t been in labor for the past ten hours.

“Yep,” Keith says, not looking at Lance, kicking his feet up on the bed, bracing his hands on the bedrails and – and fucking – he’s _pushing_ –

“Dr. Rosenthal!” Lance screams, popping his head out the door and making his whole family jump where they’re waiting in chairs. “Dr. Rosenthal! He’s pushing!”

Kinkade shoves him back inside because that isn’t exactly incognito, but Lance doesn’t even care because Keith is red-faced and silent and something is _happening_. A nurse bustles into the room and ducks down to look between Keith’s legs and finally in comes Dr. Rosenthal, glasses flashing, snapping gloves onto her capable hands.

“I heard it’s time! Keith, talk to me, what’s happening?”

“Gotta push,” he says, barely any space between his teeth. “Pressure.”

“Good, do what your body says,” she replies, which seems weirdly out of character for her. “Go, go, go,” she chants, until it passes and Keith slumps.

“Good,” she says instantly. “Push with each contraction, the whole contraction, and catch your breath in the in-between.”

“That felt so weird,” Keith says, apparently capable of full sentences again. “Like…the most urgent shit of my life.”

“Why are you comparing our daughter to poop?” Lance wails.

“Cause that’s what she is,” Dr. Rosenthal says. “A big living poop who must come out. And if it helps Keith to think of her like that then that’s what she is.”

“You’re being weirdly crunchy,” Lance accuses.

“Laboring parents are different than check-up parents. Science doesn’t work when something living comes out of you. I learned real quick to let the parents do whatever they wanted in labor and just sit back and make sure no one tears their ass.”

Keith nods very seriously.

Pushing is just as long as the rest of it, as it turns out. Keith tucks his chin and pushes for hours, and Lance can’t see any difference but Dr. Rosenthal assures him that progress is happening. Keith goes from one-word answers to silent as the sun fully sets outside, smog-covered streetlights shining from the windows. Lance would love nothing more than to go to the bathroom, or take a shower, or get some food, or go to the DMV, or fucking _anything_ that’s not the endless hours of agony inside this room. But he can’t, because Keith is delivering his child, tendrils of his hair plastered sweatily to his temples, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the bed. He’s a rock, all of his fear and panic bled away, leaving nothing but determination. Lance kisses his temple and prays. _Let him be okay_ , he asks. _I need him. Please let him be okay._

Keith’s face has stayed pretty stony throughout all the pushing, but it starts to get more pinched around ten pm. He whines with a contraction, which is unusual, and then his eyes go wide.

“I can feel my feet.”

“You can feel your feet?” Lance repeats. They’ve been here for twelve hours, they must be hallucinating.

“I can feel my feet,” Keith repeats, panicking. “I can feel my feet, and my legs, and it _hurts_ , oh fuck ow ow ow – “

“Shit,” Dr. Rosenthal says. She takes a pen out of her pocket and pokes the bottom of Keith’s foot, and he winces. “This is what I was afraid of.”

“What?”

“The epidural’s wearing off,” she says, and Lance can feel all the blood drain from his feet. “The labor’s gone on too long and we put it in too early. So it’s wearing off.”

Keith screams, high in his throat, as twelve hours of labor pains slam into him all at once. He drops Lance’s hand and fists the blankets, almost tearing them up.

“So give him another one!” Lance says.

“Can’t,” she says shortly. She’s slipping on a new set of gloves. “Because the reason he’s screaming is that he’s crowning, and at this point giving him an epidural might prolong labor and it’s safer for everyone if she just gets out as quickly as possible.”

Keith folds himself in half, sobbing, sounds wrenched from his throat. “Fuck, fuck, it burns, Jesus God it burns – “

“Yep, that’s the ring of fire,” Dr. Rosenthal says, and the nurse snaps into action, grabbing the bassinet and putting on her gloves. “Few good pushes and she’ll be here.”

"Are we excited?" The nurse asks, reaching over to press a button on the monitor. "This is little Soledad, right?"

Keith's eyes fly open. "What?"

Ah, fuck. "Uh..."

"Lance," Keith says, his face bright red, neck tendons standing out. 

"Uh, yeah, so that radio show this morning - I might've been so excited to be a dad that I kinda, you know, said it?"

"Push, Keith," Dr. Rosenthal counsels. Keith folds forward, tucking his chin down, and Lance thinks that’s the end of it but - 

"You said our baby's name on live fucking radio?" Keith grits out, his bright eyes burning a hole in Lance. 

"Less talking, more pushing," Dr. Rosenthal warns.

"Lance," Keith says anyway, cause he's a stubborn fucking asshole. Lance is so fucking in love. "Lance, does the whole world know I'm giving birth because you _fucking told them?_ "

"Babe, I didn’t mean to I swear, it just fell out and you should really be pushing right now -"

"I am fucking pushing!" He yells, and then finishes on a wordless shout. 

It passes, and he slumps down, his chest ballooning with air, heart rate going wild on the monitor. "I'm going to kill you," he says exhaustedly. Lance believes him.

"Come on babe, you don't want to be a single father now," Lance jokes. It teases a smile out of Keith before the next one strikes.

“Shit, shit, this isn’t working, not working.” And then he plants his hands on the rails and starts _moving_ , grunting as he twists his hips.

“Keith, babe, what – “ Lance reaches out to push him down but Dr. Rosenthal stays him with a hand.

“He knows what he’s doing.”

Lance hovers, hands in the air, as Keith inexplicably maneuvers his bulk until he’s on his hands and knees, his backside towards Dr. Rosenthal. His gown gapes open, showing the pale curve of his ass, and he drops his head until all Lance can see is a curtain of black hair.

“Good, Keith, very good,” Dr. Rosenthal says, totally unphased by the chance in position. “A couple good pushes, you’re almost there.”

“Jesus,” Keith whispers, his elbows shaking with the weight of holding his body.

Lance doesn’t even think. He climbs up on the bed, awkwardly knee-walking himself to the place where Keith’s head was, shoes all over the pillow. He grabs Keith’s hands and hauls them up onto his shoulders, Keith’s weight tipping forward. Keith’s head drops down into Lance’s shoulder, a sweaty overheated head of hair breathing damp exhales onto Lance’s neck.

“You got it, baby,” Lance whispers, adrenaline making his heart run marathons. “You got it, you got it, you got it, come on, you’re so amazing, you’re beautiful, you’re a hero – “

Keith moans, and Lance can’t see anything of him but his limp bangs. Lance can feel his body clench, can feel his whole being straining to get her out, shaking with the effort. Lance holds him up by the bare skin of his sweaty back and listens to him pant.

“One more, come on, one more for the head!” Dr. Rosenthal cheers.

Keith heaves, almost biting Lance’s shoulder, groaning into his shirt, and –

“Head’s out,” Dr. Rosenthal says, and Lance almost leans over to look before he remembers that he’s currently the only thing in the world holding his boyfriend up. “Now gentle for the shoulders, gentle, little baby pushes – “

Keith pants, his skin thrumming with heat, and Lance is lightheaded because she’s almost here, almost here, oh God –

“One last push, come on Keith!”

Keith _pushes_ , his whole body quaking, and there’s a wet sound and a high, thin cry, like the mewing of a cat, and that’s – that’s –

Lance looks over Keith’s back and sees Dr. Rosenthal raising her up like Simba, a red-purple squalling little thing, with tiny toes and thrashing fists, alive and screaming and _theirs_. “She’s here!” Dr. Rosenthal cheers, and all the nurses clap. Lance’s throat has gone totally dry.

“Howishe?” Keith mumbles.

“What?” Lance leans down, just as Keith peeks up through his bangs. Lance hasn’t seen his bloodshot purple eyes in forever and it feels like his heart cracks open at the sight.

“How is she?” Keith croaks.

Soledad is still crying in the background – that’s Soledad, she’s _here_ , she’s _alive_. “Beautiful,” Lance says honestly. “Babe, I love you so much.”

“Love you too,” he says dazedly.

“Keith, we’re gonna swing you around so you can hold her, okay? Lance, give us a hand here – “

“Oh, yeah, absolutely.” As gentle as they can, the maneuver Keith onto his back once again. Keith barely helps at all, as the tension and clench of earlier bleeds out. He’s mostly a limp noodle, but his eyes are alive, and as soon as he’s flipped he reaches out his arms.

“Here you are, Dad,” Dr. Rosenthal says, and deposits a still-crying Soledad right on his chest.

“Oh,” Keith says, bringing his hands up clumsily. “Oh, love. Hi. Hi.”

She’s spectacularly weird-looking, with her goopy blotchy skin, gaping toothless mouth, scrunched up fists and froggy legs. But she’s tiny, and Keith’s big hand covers the whole span of her back. She’s weird and freaky and she’s also simultaneously the most amazing thing Lance has ever seen, and that doesn’t make any sense to him and he’s not sure it ever will.

Her cries peter off into little hiccuping wails, and Keith puts one hand under her little bottom and hefts her up. “Lance,” he says, and his eyes are huge and tear-filled and gorgeous.

“I know,” he says. He leans over to rub a hand over her pudgy little arm, the tiny crest of her foot, watching her pebble-like toes twitch in response. “I know, babe. She’s everything.”

 

* * *

 

 

Keith read somewhere that there was no relief greater than the sudden absence of pain. He didn’t really get it, at the time.

He gets it now.

After Soledad – his daughter, shit – enters the world, things get a little blurry. Families visit, Mrs. McClain and Colleen both cry, he passes the afterbirth and doesn’t even realize it. The nurse said something about an Apgar test and all he discerned from it was that Soledad did fine, whatever it was. After he hears that, there’s no reason to stay awake anymore.

When he wakes up, he’s sore all over, in places he didn’t think he’d be sore.

When he passed out the room was full of family members and doctors and chatter; now, it’s quiet, dark and still. They’re in the inbetween hours of night, the dark times that all slide together into one tender, moonlit blur. Keith blinks as sensation returns to his body in slow waves; the aching in his bottom, the heavy fullness of his chest, the sandpaper feel of his eyes. He realizes he can see his feet poking up under the blanket and that’s unusual, because there used to be a belly in the way. It’s gone now, replaced by a sore deflated lump. And his belly is gone because he gave birth, and he has a daughter now, and fuck where _is_ she?

He sits up as quickly as he can, wincing a little when his muscles protest the motion. Something startles in the chair in the corner, and Keith reaches for the lamp and clicks it on to see Lance sitting in the chair with a blanketed bundle in his arms.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Lance says, his voice hoarse and quiet. He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Keith says distractedly. “Is she – is she okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Lance says. He stands up and tiptoes over, careful to go extremely quietly. “She’s sleepy. But I think she might want a feed soon, she was kinda…eating the air? I don’t know? Here.”

He transfers her over and Keith’s arms take her like they know exactly what to do.

“Oh my God,” he says, “she looks so different.” He wants to say ‘better’ but that seems mean to say about his newborn daughter. She’s no longer the screaming, sticky, red-purple little alien that first came out of him. Now Soledad is soft, and clean, and impossibly cute, with creamy skin and dark fuzz on her head. He rubs a hand over the tight curl of her hand and she blinks open her eyes, and they’re endless blue.

“Oh, Soledad,” he says, and promptly chokes up. _You’ll never be alone_ , he thinks, wildly. _You’ll never have to do any of this alone_. Lance perches beside him on the bed with a delirious smile on his exhausted face.

She puckers her lips and makes a little coughing noise and yeah, that does probably mean feed me.

“Uh, I have no idea what to do,” Keith says to Lance.

“Can’t be that hard,” Lance says with a shrug.

They were, as usual, wrong. Keith thought Soledad would instinctively know where his nipple was and what to do with it. But over the course of trying to get her to latch on, she went from a sleepy happy baby to a screaming mess. Lance calls the nurse, who comes in and tells them in no uncertain terms that they are totally fucking it up. She rotates Soledad, puts a pillow on Keith’s lap, adjusts her wailing mouth, and then –

“Oh, that’s weird,” Keith says, as a shiver-prickle washes over his chest and he can _feel_ his milk let down. Soledad is blissfully quiet, sucking away, and this is officially the weirdest fucking feeling. “I’m a cow.”

“You’re feeding your baby,” the nurse says. “It feels weird but that’s normal. Nothing to be freaked out about.”

Keith thinks there’s a lot that’s weird about this, and he’s still not entirely sure how he feels about it. But she’s warm and quiet in his arms, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes, and he feels something inside him settle that’s been restless since he was a child. He wonders, wildly, if this was how his mom felt when she held him, this sense of joy and protectiveness that he could barely understand. He doesn’t know how she could give him up, not after feeding her like this; but the thought doesn’t cause him quite as much pain as usual.

_She gave me up,_ Keith thinks. _But I’ll never do that. I’m not doomed to repeat her mistakes._

He’s coming dangerously close to crying again, so he looks over at Lance. He’s similarly besotted, one hand tracing her tiny foot. The blue light of his phone shines from the other table, which reminds Keith…

“I’m still pissed at you for saying her name on the radio.”

Lance winces, raising his hands sheepishly. “Sorry? I was really, really excited?”

Keith rolls his eyes. It’s hard to summon too much anger when Soledad is making the tiniest little noises. “You are banned from social media while she grows up.”

“That’s not gonna work,” he says, “because I already have about a hundred pics of her that are too precious to not be posted.”

“I’m not in them, am I?”

“Yeah, some of them.”

“Lance,” he says in horror. “Lance, I swear, do not post any of me. I _swear_.”

“Why not, babe?” He presses a kiss to Keith’s sweat-tacky hair. “You’re gorgeous.”

Keith flushes because he’s never been less gorgeous in his life and he knows it. Soledad finishes with her meal and nods right back off, a scarily light weight in his arm. He adjusts so she’s resting more in his lap and not all against his arms – he’s still a little terrified he’ll drop her – and all she does is squeak and burrow deeper into the blankets.

He suddenly doesn’t care if Lance posts pictures of him, even if it’s a shot of her coming out of him. This is the best moment of his life.

“We need to come up with a middle name,” Keith says.

“We’ve got time,” Lance says easily. “No rush. Something we both like.”

“And…for the last name,” he ventures.

“Yeah?” Lance’s voice is carefully neutral.

“I don’t want her to have a hyphen,” Keith says, because he knows that much. “And your last name is more famous, everyone’s going to want to say your baby has your name, so…Soledad McClain?”

He’s trying so hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice – because he carried her, goddamn it, and seven months of it were totally without Lance – but it’s true. He doesn’t want her to be hyphenated and he knows what people on the internet will scream if Keith’s name is on her and not Lance’s. He’s not going to put any of them through that particular hell just for the name.

“We could do that,” Lance says mildly. “Or, we could actually do it the Cuban way. With both parents’ names as equal last names.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. My full name is Lance McClain Sanchez, I just shortened it to make it easier when I started acting. She could be Soledad McClain Kogane. No hyphen.”

“Soledad McClain Kogane,” he repeats.

“Common practice in Latin America,” Lance says easily. “In case anybody asks.”

Could it be that easy? His name could be his daughter’s name, equal to Lance’s? The Kogane name, which never meant anything to anyone but Keith, would actually be passed on? And the daughter of Lance McClain would be a Kogane, would proudly carry her birth father’s name for the rest of her life, and Keith would forever get to put his name on her, his proudest accomplishment?

“And that would be okay with you?” He says, because he has to check.

Lance’s face melts, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Babe,” he says, with another kiss to the corner of his mouth. Keith chases it instinctively. “She’s our daughter, together. Both of us. Nothing would make me happier than her named for both of us.”

Keith grins, and he can’t stop grinning, and he’s not sure he’ll ever stop. Soledad McClain Kogane sighs in his arm, their perfect little human. The best mistake Keith’s ever going to make.

He could’ve worn a condom.

He didn’t.

Thank God for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously safe sex is actually quite important, don't let these idiots convince you otherwise.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading! Let me know what you thought! 
> 
> Love, PVB


End file.
